Heir of Akatosh
by Mintermist
Summary: Five years after the Oblivion Crisis, Hero of Kvatch Kayta Pelenix is left with both a memory and a secret to guard, living in reclusion with the Blades. However, with the Empire in chaos, a failed assassination and a price on her head, it will not be long before she is forced to return to face the darkness that threatens both Cyrodiil and her heart. (Kayta/Martin, Kayta/OC)
1. Prologue I

**Author's Note: Hello all. This has been sitting on my desktop for perhaps two years since I first beat Oblivion. For those of you who have yet to beat the game, be prepared that there are SPOILERS involved, as well as a heavy portion of imagination. So with that said, you have been warned.**

While the main story occurs about five years after the game, this first part of the prologue starts the night before the climactic final battle of the main quest storyline with my imagining for Martin and a female Hero(ine) of Kvatch. I was quite choked by Martin's fate, as wonderful as the storytelling was, so I suppose that's how this whole concept was birthed. Call me sentimental.

© of Bethesda's characters and world goes to Bethesda. © of my characters goes to me.

Read on and I hope you enjoy,

-Mintermist

* * *

 **PROLOGUE I**

* * *

 _31 Evening Star, the Year of Akatosh, 3E 433  
_ _Tirdas  
_ _Bleaker's Way Goodwill Inn, 11:42PM_

"It's really happening…isn't it?" Martin chuckles, low and rich, running a hand through his tangled mane of chestnut and ironwood. Firelight dances in the grate, casting flickering shadows against the rough-hewn walls, and the crisp scent of the winter-kissed breeze gusts through the open window. He shakes his head. "I can hardly believe it." Wonder colours his words.

I smile involuntarily.

"Well, you'd better start believing. Despite the Blades' loyalty, Jauffre and Baurus wouldn't be pleased to be sharing such close quarters for nothing." My grin is impish, as I slip through the doorway, pulling my robe closer to my frame. "We'll be meeting with Chancellor Ocato tomorrow afternoon. Declaring you Emperor of Cyrodiil. So you'd better get used to it."

A quiet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Framed against the window, leaning against the sill, he looks every inch a king. Self-assured, strong-willed, yet cloaked in a humble grace. He towers a head and a half above me, eyes filled with fire, draped in a mantle of silken midnight. Befitting a ruler. Beneath the unlaced collar of his crimson brocade robe, the Amulet of Kings hangs at his chest. The symbol of the divine right of the Cyrodilic emperors, it marks him as the Dragonborn. The heir to the throne.

"Anyways," I continue, setting my favoured dagger onto the armoire, and slowly releasing my hair from its pins. Blonde tresses fall to my shoulders. He turns from the starlit window, observing me with amusement. "That _trinket_ suits you well. It would be a shame to give it up."

"Yes, a shame, indeed," he mocks, nodding semi-solemnly, glancing at the pendant's scarlet gemstone, "the very pinnacle of reasons to take the throne: the jewels." A merry laugh escapes his throat, his eyes crinkling.

"Of course. Forget noble causes and ending the Oblivion crisis. You're in it for the jewellery, Emperor Farmboy," I grin.

He brays loudly, deep mirth lighting his eyes brighter than I've seen since Kvatch.

"I'm so glad I have you to remind me of my true motives, Lady Knight."

"Yes, what would you do without me," I smirk. His eyes falter, darkening, and his gaze falls to the angry scar at my collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of my robe. A Daedric reminder of my clash with Mankar Camoran in his hellish Paradise.

"I would be dead without you right now," he murmurs sombrely, "Cyrodiil –maybe all of Tamriel—would be lost to Oblivion. We all owe you our—"

I shake my head.

"Please. Not now. You can deal out honours another day, maybe. Let's just celebrate this. Here. Now. A moment of peace; I doubt you'll have many once the madness begins." Already, whispers of a Septim heir has spread, a flood of hope surging forward with a tide of triumph. The Oblivion Crisis will end soon.

"If they'll even have me." He rakes a hand through his hair, before shaking his head. "But you're right. There's just so much to do…"

"And, what would your first act as Emperor be, my Lord?" I tease, bringing his hand to my lips. His fingers are rough and capable, strengthen by years of common work and healing.

The corner of his mouth curls like parchment, his eyes flashing wickedly. His fingers reach and tenderly trace the scar at my collarbone, slipping beneath my robe. Pulling me close. A shadow of stubble scrapes my cheek, his breath hot as his lips press at the hollow of my neck.

"I would have my Lady," Martin Septim rumbles, slipping the robe from my shoulders.

* * *

 _2:26 AM_

"They'll never let me keep you," I murmur into the darkness. Sleepless eyes fix on a fray in the linen covers, rough against my bare skin, the realization of reality unravelling my bliss. The Inn room is swathed in indigo silence, velvet shadows. Martin stirs beside me, face burrowed in my hair. His arms tighten around me instinctively, and I sink against his gentle strength, feeling my own leeching away.

"Don't talk like that—"

"You know it's true, Martin. You'll be an Emperor— _the_ Emperor—"

He laughs, a strained chortle, and his voice is dark.

"Yes… an Emperor who grew up believing he was the son of a farmer. An Emperor who turned out to be the Septim bastard. A reformed Daedric worshipper. I'm no better than the lowest of my people, really. Worse, maybe," He drapes a leg over my hip, drawing my body closer to his warmth. The contours of his torso press against my sturdy frame, silently whispering promises of desire. "I'm alive and here because of you, Kayta. I would not have survived Kvatch without you, let alone the weeks since." I shiver as he breathes my name, turning to face him. My fingers find the rough planes of his face, breathing in his scent. Sandalwood. Parchment. Spices. Strength.

His eyes glint in the darkness, and I take in their warmth depths.

"You know what I mean, Martin," I murmur. "The Empire is fragile. It needs to put on a show of strength and unity. Its hold on the provinces will fail otherwise." A sound of protestation escapes his throat, but I press on. "They'll want heirs, Martin. Noble heirs. And for that, they'll need a noble wife by…by your side." _In your bed_ , I silently add. The truth is an acrid poison in my mouth.

"Perfect; I know just the woman for the job." He kisses my navel, his hands tender with passion. "I can't think of a nobler person." I brush him back, sitting up with the creak of the timber bed.

"Martin, not even a year ago, I was rotting in a cell in your father's prison. I don't think Chancellor Ocato or the council would be thrilled to have someone like me as your… Empress," The word is full of longing, and I press on, "or even as your consort." Dank memories of the dreary Imperial cell creep across my spine like a ghost. Martin sits up, placing a kiss on my temple.

"And yet here you are, not even a year later. Saving Cyrodiil. The Hero of Kvatch. Archmage. The Second Divine Crusader. I don't think anyone can complain about your record, milady. Who is there in all of Tamriel better than Imperial lioness Kayta Pelenix to stand by my side? To be my better self?" He props himself up, a hand resting on my knee.

"I'm lowborn." The words catch in my throat, "Nobility marries to secure allegiances. It's inevitable. Besides, I've done… terrible things…" My fingers absently twist the Black Band at my finger, an unspoken secret, and I shudder as images of the Nightmother's victims bleed across my vision. A past put to rest, yet a constant bloody blemish upon my conscience.

"And I haven't?" Martin scoffs. "When I worshipped Sanguine, those boys –my friends— died, Kayta. I thank the gods that we aren't defined by the past."

I shake my head, fingers splayed across my temples.

"You're Dragonborn, Martin. You were born for this. To rule."

"And what good is that if you're powerless to be with the woman you love?" Frustration spits out with the steam of a dragon.

"Your father understood…" I murmur. "It's the burden of a ruler—"

"And yet here I am, his bastard son. He knew something, clearly, and it's not what you'd think."

Silence crackles, heavy and poignant.

At last, Martin sighs. "I don't want to fight with you," he murmurs, drawing me back to him, caressing my hair. "Not tonight. But perhaps others," he teases, kissing my forehead. I press against him, and he sighs again. "In truth, I don't know what will happen, Kayta. But I know that I love you and that I need you to stand by me. I know that I _will_ fight for my people. I will fight to end this crisis. And I will fight... for you."

"And what of Ocato? The council? What about what they think?"

"We'll deal with them later," he growls, his body eclipsing mine. I sigh at the consuming crush of his lips, sinking into glorious oblivion.


	2. Prologue II

**Author's Note: If you've made it here, I thank you. The Prologue will be broken into three "Chapters" before we get to the real story. I'll keep this short for squeamishness' sake. Please leave a review! I'd love to hear from you.**

 **-Mintermist**

* * *

 **Prologue II**

* * *

 _28 Heartfire, 4E 0  
_ _Cloud Ruler Temple, 3:41 AM_

 _We'll deal with them later_.

The words –his words—echo through my mind as I suppress a scream. Hands press against my brow, holding my wrists, restraining me. Gentle. Firm. Reassuring. Figures move, blurred shapes at my bedside, as a tremor passes through me.

 _My body, Martin. My body, my body, they're breaking my body. Where are you, Martin? They're breaking my body, sending it into Oblivion. Don't let them break my body, Martin._

My mind sobs. Pleads. My lips scream. Beads of perspiration stream across my brow, my hair and my shift plastered to my skin. A shock of agony erupts from my body, pangs of torment wracking through me. The hands soothe, gently caressing, and voices coo around me.

I thought I knew pain before this, but nothing in Cyrodiil or Oblivion compares.

I clench my eyes, trying to block the ache, trying to block the images that come with it. Memory and madness leak past my dark lids, and I see it again, as my body is wracked with fire. Images flash before my eyes. The final day, seeped with the blood of Martin's sacrifice. The Amulet of Kings bursting with light. The avatar of Akatosh, committing the colossal form of Mehrunes Dagon back to the hellish pits of Oblivion. The ruined temple, enshrining the stone figure of the dragon. The following three months, spent in a haze of wilderness and despair, clawing men and beasts alike. That is, at least, until the realization struck.

A wail escapes my lips.

"Shhh," an Altmer woman soothes, her brow furrowed in empathy. Tandilwe, I recognize wearily. The head priestess of the Temple of the One. "Yes, that's it, dear, you're doing so well."

I push, and the following six months burst past my mental dam with a cry. The realization of the growing bump at my belly… the lack of my monthly flower. An overwhelming sense of fear and joy washes over me anew, at the realization of Martin's final gift, his final comfort, his final symbol of love. The memory of the terrifying ride to Cloud Ruler Temple flashes before my eyes, complete with the wide, fearful eyes of the Blade warriors. Loyal as ever, Jauffre pledges to protect the unborn child, and the Blades follow with a vow of secrecy and allegiance.

And then came the growing roundness which both delighted and frightened.

And now the agony. Hours of agony amidst the soothing of priestesses and midwives.

It is followed by a final burst.

A cry rings out. Small, yet robust and piercing.

"Blessings of the Nine, Mistress Pelenix," Tandilwe's gentle hand brushes against my forehead. Cool. Composed. A burst of blue light washes over me, quelling the pain as my body heaves. "You fought so well. It's a healthy girl."

A wriggling red bundle is placed at my breast, and something between a laugh and a cry escapes my lips at the sight of the beautifully scrunched red face. A laugh escapes my lips at the piercing wail of this minute creature with a rhythmic little heartbeat. Tiny fingers with miniature nails wave, grasp, pull. A feathering of light brown down covers her head. Emotion wells, drawing water from my eyes.

"Do you have a name for the child?" The Altmer woman asks kindly.

I nod, hands shaking as my fingers clasp my baby.

"Akara… Akara Septim."

 _For Akatosh._

 _For Martin._


	3. Prologue III

**Prologue III**

* * *

28 _Heartfire, 4E 0_  
 _Southeast of Skingrad, 11:04 PM_

The torch flickers, sparks sputtering as the Bosmer stumbles through the maze of shadow and stalagmite. Rats squeal in the darkness, and a distant rumble of water and secrecy emanates from deep within the cave. The discoloured curve of a rib cage cracks under his feet, and he shudders, steadying his grip on the torch.

"Damn cave. All looks the same," he grumbles. "Should be 'round here somewh—"

The serrated dagger is an icy wraith, darting from the shadows, silently biting into the surface of his flesh. The torch falls, fizzling into darkness. Serpentine tendrils of smoke wreath the air as a vicelike grip restrains his sword arm.

"Make a move, and I'll carve your heart out," a voice hisses at his ear.

"G-greet the new day," the Bosmer rasps. The knife blade hesitates.

"Acolyte," the voice concedes, with a hint of disappointment. The pressure at his neck lessens. "For a moment, I thought we'd been discovered." The voice chuckles, wistfully sheathing the dagger. "But if you made it back in one piece, you must have good news."

He scowls, fingers slowly tracing the thin crimson moon oozing at his throat.

Wide red eyes blink in the dark, and a vicelike grip grabs his robe-front.

"Damn _ashborn_ ," the Bosmer growls, spitting the word and shrugging away from his assailant. She chuckles darkly.

"Give me a reason to slice you ear to ear, little _boiche_ , and I'll take it. Gladly." The Dunmer smiles sweetly, her crimson eyes narrowing. "The golden brotherhood may be scattered, but I'm sure that her ladyship won't mind losing one snivelling tree rat. Or having your ears for a trophy." She grins, baring white teeth; a stark contrast with her ashen complexion.

" _Her_ _ladyship_ will have to be deprived of my gods-blessed ears today, Sedris," the Bosmer retorts coldly. "Because, fact is, these gods-blessed ears not only made it back in one piece –no thanks to you—, but have heard things that would make Dagon himself build a shrine in my honour. By Azura, there could be an entire temple dedicated to the Golden Lobes of Faldil—"

"Blasphemous of our Lord, Faldil?" A voice booms, reverberating across the cavern. The Bosmer flinches. Sedris's scarlet eyes widen in recognition. Clad in the helm and garb of a cult assassin, a man coolly crosses the cavern. "Perhaps Lord Dagon will build a shrine in honour of your tongue, as well?" He continues softly, "He could slice it off—" The tip of his dagger hovers under the Bosmer's nose "–and put it on display."

Faldil swallows nervously.

"F-forgive me, Lord Stonearm," he mutters.

"My Lord," Sedris bows her head in reverence, "May I have the privilege? I'd be honoured to relieve him of his tongue…or his ears…or any other part of his body."

The man laughs.

"By Mephala! Of all of the remaining members of the Mythic Dawn to survive, I'm left with a blasphemous spy and a blood crazed sentry." He grins, flashing ivory teeth. "We may have use of you yet, Mistress Sedris. But come. Both of you. Lady Adira is waiting."

* * *

"Stonearm. You've returned." The woman's voice is cool, echoing across the chamber. Shimmering Welkynd stones cast a blue light upon the walls of the ruin, and a tattered banner hangs on the wall, bearing the insignia of the Mythic Dawn sun. "And what is this you've brought me? Strays returned to the fold? How delightful." With hooded eyes of ice, the Altmer woman rises fluidly, her scarlet robes billowing. Ebony hair shorn close on the sides crowns her pale, haughty face with a fierce beauty.

"Not strays, milady, but an informant. Faldil the Bosmer was perched on your doorstep. Claiming news to make the Daedric lords themselves worship at his feet." Lord Stonearm indicates Faldil. "Pray it is worth her ladyship's time, boiche."

The Altmer woman's eyes narrow shrewdly, observing the two elves.

"Then, for your sake, I hope that you bring worthy news, Bosmer," she settles onto a carved stone platform, turning to Faldil. "My time is precious."

The wood elf nods vigorously.

"I do, Adi—my lady. It's the survivors. There are more than expected. They're scattered, but mostly willing to regroup under a leader. What's more is—"

"What's the point? Mankar's Paradise is lost, _bioche_ fool. The royal bastard made certain of that. The gates are sealed and Dagon banished to Oblivion, along with the Oblivion gates," Sedris spits, scarlet eyes narrowed.

"Silence," Adira's voice is a blizzard, eyes flaming at the Dunmer. "Continue," she commands. The Bosmer clears his throat.

"With the Empire so unstable, your ladyship, all it would take is the precise cuts to send it clattering down and establish a new order. The council is weak and Cyrodiilic power is failing. The Septim line of the Dragonborn is no more. The line is ended, and the Dragonfires may not be lit until the new ruler is chosen. Our time to act is now. Retribution is near."

"What are you saying, tree rat?" Stonearm drawls. The man's voice gruff with iron ire. "Even if the remnants flock to our side under Dagon's sigil, we haven't the numbers to overpower the Imperial guard. It could take months…years, even. Who knows what powers will change?"

"True. But what of overpowering one individual? Tell me, my Lord. What is it that holds Cyrodiil together?" The Bosmer pauses, his hazel eyes glimmering with excitement.

"Power and control," Sedris replies, a barb of irascibility piercing the air.

The Bosmer snorts, shaking his head. The piercings on his ear glimmer in the blue light.

" _Hope_ , ashborn. Hope. Even in the face of fire, hope holds the Empire together with bated breath. Hope that Martin will return, or hope for a heroic political answer to the issue of succession." The Bosmer turns to Adira, grinning. She rewards him with a stony gaze.

"I care nothing for hope. It is but an illusion. You spoke of retribution," Adira breathes, a deathly serpent.

"I…well…Isn't it obvious?" The Bosmer stammers. "I speak of killing the Champion." He puffs out his chest, arms crossed. Silence cloaks the cavern, shattering into jagged shards as Sedris lets out a hollow cackle.

"And who will kill her, you fool? You? The Hero of Kvatch is a powerful warrior and a mage at that," Sedris jeers. "Everyone knows it. Not even Mankar Camoran could—"

"Ah ah ah. You ashborn are all the same. Hasty and short-sighted," the Bosmer tuts, shaking his head. "I speak not of the woman."

"No…not the woman. Destroy the symbol," Stonearm interjects evenly, nodding with a hand to his beard. "Find her weaknesses and strike. When you do, you destroy the hope of the council…the hope of the people. Chaos will ensue. Then, when she is broken, kill the woman. With the Septim line gone, it will sow panic. She is the remaining paragon of hope. Destroy hope, and you shatter the Empire from the inside."

A squall of laughter emanates from Adira, a frigid blast of unfeeling mirth. It settles over skin like a glacial cloak.

"This Imperial bitch… the one they call the Champion of Cyrodiil. I presume you know where is she now, Bosmer? My time is so very precious." She asks, thin ice in her eyes. Gloved hands smooth her crimson cloak primly.

"I have my little birds, your ladyship. I was able to track her last known movements."

The Altmer leans forwards, perching on the edge of the chaise, brows furrowed in polite disdain.

"Go on."

Faldil grins gleefully, rubbing his ears.

"While the bards praise the Hero of Kvatch, there are rumours. They say she went… mad. After Martin Septim banished our Lord Dagon and was petrified in his dragon form, Kayta Pelenix's grief was like that of a beast. She broke her ties to Tamriel and took to the wilderness, wandering the wilds like a cur. No one knows why, but she all but disappeared. From Leyawiin to Anvil, the Colovian Highlands to the Nibenay Valley, the Champion is found only in the tales of bards. Never in the flesh."

"She's dead, then?" Stonearm asks brusquely.

"I thought you said you'd tracked her," Sedris spits, red eyes glowering. "Peasant tales of wild women hardly count as information."

"Ah, but I did. I told you my ears are golden," the Bosmer smirks peevishly. "Kayta Pelenix disappeared nine months past. Precisely nine months. And was last sighted six months back, riding North of Bruma, looking quite…" He mimes a rotund curve around his midriff. "It appears as though Cyrodiil's Holy Knight was not so very… _holy_ after all," the Bosmer chortles, a gurgling sound of glee.

"And pray, where did she go? To Skyrim?" Adira's voice is cool, an impassable expression painted over her angular features.

The Bosmer shrugs.

"Perhaps. I cannot say for certain, but my little birds never saw her reach the border. Cloud Ruler Temple, on the other hand…" He shrugs again.

"Well, well. The Blades?" Adira asks. "This is a surprise. I would have thought they would have disbanded in shame at the death of the Septim bastard."

"Officially, perhaps. But it is a formidable fortress. They say only a few men can hold it off against an army. It would be a death trap to assail the walls," Stonearm interposes, his voice foreboding.

"Then we need no army. You know who to send," Adira smiles, a cold curve of ice and steel. "We must find her, and observe carefully. All birds must fly, and when she does, we will strike." She sweeps to her feet, steel and glass. "Dawn is breaking. It is time to greet the new day once more."

* * *

 **Author's End Note: I hope you enjoyed the final segment of the prologue. Stay tuned for the first full Chapter ahead, and please R &R.**


	4. Chapter One: Honour

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

Five _Years Later_  
 _13 First Seed 4E 5, 8:32PM  
_ _Cloud Ruler Temple_

"But is it wise?" A draught of hesitancy saturates Baurus's rich baritone. The Blade Knight stands upon the walls of Cloud Ruler Temple, head cocked and his helm tucked beneath one arm overlooking the valley below. Deep furrows crease his brow and an Akaviri Katana hangs at his hip, glowing in the torchlight with the elegant curve of deadly steel.

Overhead, the first star peeks through the velveteen indigo of the heavens. It gleams, an ethereal being of light and mystery, convening merrily with the Nine Divines. _And Martin_ , I muse, wrapping my arms around my torso. The chafe of my spun wool robe scratches at my arms, and I breathe in the heady scent of petrichor, left behind by the First Seed showers.

"I just don't understand why we can't pay our respects at the chapel in Bruma? Or in our own chapel?" Baurus continues. He shakes his head, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. The Redguard's dark skin is like burnished bronze in the flickering sconce light. "The Imperial City is so far, and the roads are no place for a child. Surely it would make no difference to either Martin or the Nine?"

I arch an eyebrow, my gaze loosing a volley of ebony arrows upon my old friend.

"No difference? Baurus, I…I want her to see him. What he did for us all. We can't do that here, or in Bruma…" I bite my lip, throwing a cautionary glance to the wind. "I would that my daughter grow up knowing who her father is…" The tang of memory catches on my tongue, as bittersweet and precious as the dying embers on the Western horizon. I swallow the surge of the past, defiance flashing in my eyes. "Beyond the stories retold with her every question, I want her to know for herself. Even if she doesn't fully know what that means. Even though she won't know _what_ that makes her, just as Ocato and the Imperial Council will never know..." I shake my shoulders at the familiar flutter of trepidation. With the political warring of the Imperial Council factions and the rumoured rebellions of the outer provinces, my daughter's parentage would ensure a swift knife to her throat or puppet strings at her little wrists.

Perhaps both.

Stillness echoes across the yard. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls like a sacred chorister, and I revel in its wildness. "I want her to know…" I murmur, a hushed whisper tucked beneath the wail of its song.

"He's not there, Kayta," the baritone says at last, gentle but firm. "Yes, the petrified Avatar of Akatosh stands in the Temple of the Nine, but Martin's spirit has… gone on. Let the scholars and priests debate what happened to him in the end. But what I know is that he sacrificed himself to save us all. And for that and the sake of your girl…you should honour that cost."

I snort, pulling my robe closer against the chill of both breeze and tears, and turn my face to the shadows. Far below, at the base of the mountain, the lights of Bruma sparkle in the darkness.

"I do honour it. And I have. But a trip to the Imperial City on the anniversary of Akara's father's sacrifice… you can't begrudge me that, my friend. I'm not exactly inexperienced in wielding a blade or safeguarding my charges. Gods know I've even saved your life a few times over," I chuckle hoarsely. Baurus' russet cheeks glow ruddily.

"Yes…and for that you have my thanks," he concedes with a gruff chuckle. "Still… the roads are no place for a child, Kayta. You've been away from Cyrodiil, tucked within these walls—for good reason, might I add—and you haven't traveled with your child before. It's not the danger you forget. You've proven yourself in battle a thousand times over. What you forget is that you're a walking legend. Bards still sing of your name. The people will whisper as you pass, and whispers make for the loudest of tales. You may yet have enemies abroad, who would learn of your daughter's parentage and use it for gods knows what gains."

"It's been five years…surely my enemies will have either died or given up," I mutter dismissively. "Besides you, Jauffre and a handful of the knights and priestesses, no one knows of Akara's parentage. And if they thirst for blood that badly, they can taste their own on the tip of my sword." The Black Band beneath my gloves weighs heavily, and I shake off a foreboding chill.

"Beware the fury of a patient man," Baurus quotes with a shrug.

Suddenly, there is a harried shout from the stables, along with a screaming whinny. Our heads snap to attention, hands whipping to our sword hilts with a veteran's familiarity. A shock sparks across my skin like a burst of lightening, as a wild blur dashes past us, rampant as a thunderous wave upon the shore. I catch a glimpse of small, desperate hands and a crackling mane, along with the rumble of hooves and the ripple of muscle. Recognition clicks with wide eyes.

"AKARA!"

The word slips from my mouth in a frenzied cry, a bilious blend of horror and panic, as my tiny daughter arcs across the yard from a stallion's back. 

* * *

**Author's End Note: And thus the story takes its first steps beyond the prologue. Stay tuned for the upcoming chapters, and please leave me the gift of your thoughts, whether they are on writing, plot predictions, guesses, characters you'd love to see from the game, corrections, questions, hatred or jubilee. Or anything else, really.  
**

 **Cheers, good morning and goodnight,  
**

 **-Mintermist**


	5. Chapter One: Honour - Part II

**CHAPTER ONE - HONOUR - PART II  
**

* * *

A rush of unbridled energy swirls at my fingertips in a flash of instinctive power. For the trace of a moment, it wavers, flickering rhythmically, balanced with the pounding anvil of my pulse.

I snap my eyes shut, both mind and body easing into the familiar hum that lingers just below the surface, echoing the world of Nirn. My wrists curve and whirl like a Khajit dancer, signing thrice in rapid succession. A burst of energy rushes through my chest, drawing upon my spirit. Power ripples across my sinews. Quaking with the force of a gale, a tongue of otherworldly fire sparks from my fingertips, and the telekinesis spell launches in a spiral across the yard. It envelops Akara with a hiss; her deathly descent slows to a mere tumble. The tiny form of her body bumps across the temple courtyard, sliding across the dusty practice square. An acerbic streak of panic coats my tongue, and I leap down the steps of the wall, breaking into a harried sprint.

Thrashing at the precipice of the yard, the offending midnight stallion brays a screaming cry. Its eyes roll white blank terror and it dances a frenzied jig of hooves and froth across the cobbled stone. Black-shod diamonds flash above my child, and something lurches in my gut. With a heavy breath, I twitch the ebony dagger from my belt and flick my wrist. The blade snicks through the air, burying itself in the horse's flank with a spurt of crimson. It stumbles with a piercing whinny before falling backwards across the palisade. Sinews and marrow crunch sickeningly and I choke back a grimace.

I force my eyes to lock on the little body curled in the dusty earth. My heart thrums to the beat of Terror's Anvil, and I skid across the final yard. A pall of dust billows in my wake.

"Akara!" I cry, turning the little girl over in the earth. "By the Nine, Akara! Are you all right? What were you THINKING?" My breath heaves like a ragged blade, as I scan her smudged little face. Her little chest rises steadily. Tears weave sparkling rivulets through the grime on her scraped cheeks. Her big brown eyes, so very like her father's, are rimmed with alarm. Ashen hair falls in dishevelled waves about her cheeks.

My hands grip the little girl by the shoulders, trembling, before I clasp her to my chest like a new babe. My hands cradle her face, and I cast a wave of golden light over her scrapes. "Don't you ever frighten me like that again, little love! Thank the gods you're alright." I plant a kiss on her cheek.

"Capallo was hungry, mama," she sniffles in my ear. I notice the carrot still clasped within her tight little fist. Half bitten and half forgotten.

"We don't feed the horses from their backs," I scold gently. "And we don't leave our beds when we've gone to sleep. And we _don't_ ride the horses alone, little one." Akara looks at her bare feet sheepishly.

"Yes mama," she nods.

"Nice save there, Archmage," Baurus calls, the chink of his armour clanking heavily as he runs up.

"Ex-Archmage. It's a little hard to guide the guild from so far away…" I mutter. Baurus lets out a low whistle.

"An Archmage is an Archmage, and thank the Nine for it. That was a close call…although Gendril will be after your head over the stallion…" He turns his rich brown eyes on Akara. "You gave your mother quite a fright, child."

Akara blushes and buries her face in the pleat of my robe. I let out a sigh, brushing a hand over her hair.

"What's done is done. Gendril will have to accept my apology in gold," I concede, brushing the dirt from the little girl's shift. "If that beast had…hurt Akara… I don't want to think of what I'd have done." I cast a quick glance to the once-magnificent animal crumpled at the bottom of the grand entry stairway, and a dull pang twinges in my gut. I _hate_ waste. "Have the tanner take what he can and send the rest to the kitchens, Baurus. I'll find Gendril before we leave tomorrow and pay him for the trouble."

"Pay me for what trouble?" A lilting voice asks, with an edge of steel. I brace myself, spinning on my heel.

"Baurus, would you be so kind as to take Akara to her room?" I ask. "I'll be there shortly to tuck her in." The man nods, shooting me a warning glance, and reaches for my daughter's small hand with his large one.

"Come along, little lady," my friend rumbles, leading my daughter to the grand temple doors.

"What trouble?" Gendril Trelling echoes quietly. The Blade knight scowls, arms crossed across his broad armoured chest. His blond hair is gathered back into a small knot at the nape of his skull, the shadow of two evening bristling on his face, and a single bronze hoop glints at one lobe. If not for the sour scowl masking his features, the Nord might even be handsome.

I sigh.

"There's been an…accident, Trelling. Capallo got loose. I'm afraid we— _I_ had to stop him."

"What do you mean 'stop him'? What kind of accident?" The man narrows his eyes. I hesitate.

"Somehow the beast got loose and almost trampled Akara. I'd rather you didn't see yet…" The man brushes past me roughly, a raging minotaur. The body of the stallion meets his gaze. He gapes, stumbling on the steps before turning on me with fiery eyes.

"What the hell have you done to my horse?" He bellows, pointing a meaty hand at the beast. "What is this? You think that just because you're the damn Hero of Kvatch, you can rage about doing what you please? Throw some knives and that we'll all scrape and bow?" The Nord spits. "That was _my_ horse."

"No! I. Well. I did what I had to," I snap, before taking an anchoring breath. "The beast almost killed my daughter. It was crazed. I'm sorry for the loss; I'm more than willing to pay you the cost—"

"I don't want your money!" Gendril exclaims. "I want my mount. It was a gift—" He stops abruptly, face flushed with fury. I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair.

"Well, what's done is done, Trelling. Take the gold and my apologies and let's be done with it."

"This isn't the last you'll hear of this, Pelenix."

I sigh, and retrieve my dagger from the horse's carcass.

"I'm afraid it is. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have my daughter to attend to."

* * *

 **Author's End Note: Two chapters within two days after a five year absence is a strange change of pace. The good thing is, I know exactly what the next two chapters or so look like. This story has been floating around half forgotten in my mind since I first wrote the prologue two years ago, and a surprising amount is being unearthed. For those who clicked because of the romance/adventure category. Don't worry. Hold in there. The excitement (and romance) will be really starting soon, I promise. There are just so many people to introduce and things to set up first for the overarching plot. And with that, I am so overdue for sleep it's not even funny.  
**

 **Please leave your thoughts in a review! I'd love to hear from you.**

 **Cheers,**

 **-Mintermist**


	6. Chapter One: Honour - Part III

**CHAPTER ONE - PART III  
**

* * *

 _14 First Seed 4E 5, 10:17PM  
_ _The North Road of Bruma_

The wind whistles over the mountaintop, a virulent wraith wailing in the pitch of night. Eddies of ice whisper across the evening currents, threatening a bloom of late flurries. Yet, beneath the surface, an undercurrent of spring blows in from the open road, tinged with heady notes of pine and wildflowers, earth and moss. Adventure beckons with the crooked finger of the winding mountain path, and some half forgotten feeling stirs in my chest.

For the first time in forever, I'm alive.

I adjust the drab habit over my light leather cuirass. Edged with a meagre lining of threadbare rabbit's fur, the rough spun fabric hangs limply on either side of the saddle, leaving me aching for a pint of mead and the old Dragon Armour that I left behind at the Temple. Two ebony daggers press against the flesh of my forearms, strapped to my skin beneath the innocuous wide sleeves. The inky blades are wickedly sharp, lodged in sheathes. Out of sight.

Ahead, Baurus and a Blade guardsman ride, garbed in the simple attire of Jerall Mountain traders.

"It'll be safer to blend in, Pelenix. We don't want to attract wandering eyes during these uncertain times," Grandmaster Jauffre's voice echoes in my memory, stitched into the lining of the habit. The timbre of his voice shakes with age. I can imagine his rheumy eyes peering over our small party's descent from the Temple above like a wise, knightly god.

The night wind bites through the thin fabric of my robe, and the guardsman's torch sputters out. A tremor courses through me. _Wisdom be damned, I'll take a some attention for a little warmth_ , I muse darkly. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howls in harmony with the shrieking wind.

Akara shivers on the saddle in front of me, wrapped in a tanned pelt. Clasping the reins with one hand, I hold her diminutive form close.

"Alright there, little love?" I murmur. The buoyant wave of her tresses nods vigorously beneath her cap. Her nose is red in the chill, but her eyes sparkle in the darkness.

"Yes, mama," she affirms. Her gloved fingers are buried in the horse's mane. "How much farther is it to the Perial City?"

"To the _Imperial_ City, pet?" I correct with a laugh. Our mount, a hardy appaloosa gelding, snorts in the frosty air. "How far do you think it is?"

The little girl scrunches her face.

"A…a million paces?" She offers. I chuckle and ruffle her hair.

"Perhaps for little legs, love. But not for the legs of a beast—"

"Mama. His name is Álogo," Akara interposes, her russet gaze intent and imperious. "And he's not a beast. He's my friend."

"Of course. Álogo," I nod gravely, suppressing a grin. At five-years-old, my daughter is serious about the inhabitants of the Temple stables. I place a kiss on her head, before continuing. "We'll be arriving tomorrow night, Akara. Fortis and Arcturus have gone on ahead to make sure you have a cozy city bed ready to crawl into to warm up your toes and rest your head. Won't that be nice?" Akara nods vigorously.

"Can we buy sweetrolls when we get there?"

"Perhaps—"

"Kayta," someone calls. Hooves clatter across the hard earth, pounding footfalls breaking through the chatter. I peer through the darkness, drawing up an orb of magelight. A shadowy rider rounds the bend. Fortis, a longstanding member of the Blades, I recognize.

"Brother knight," I greet him cautiously, raising a hand. "We thought you'd be halfway to the Imperial City by now."

"And where's Arcturus?" Baurus asks, bringing his horse parallel to mine.

Fortis glances between us. His eyes are wide— his countenance pale. Grim, even.

"We were…delayed," Fortis replies. His voice is heavy. "Arcturus is fine. We're both fine. But… Pelenix…you may need to see this." He turns his horse, before nodding his head curtly towards Akara. "And you may not want your daughter to, either."

"Cover your eyes, Akara," I say, dismounting from Álogo. "And stay right there. Baurus. Please stay with her." The Blade and his kinsman bob their heads in affirmation, eyes shrewd as I mount up behind Fortis. His spurs his horse, an elegant black steed, and we charge down the path. The air whips tendrils of loosened blonde hair around my face, and I hold fast to my fellow knight.

"I warn you… this isn't pretty," Fortis's voice is acrid. "You remember the Battle of Bruma? How the field burned for days with blood and fire?" The man's voice is quiet, blackened with solemn memory.

"Of course," I reply slowly. "Martin led the charge. I barely made it out of Oblivion. So many fell." Fortis nods gravely.

"Then you'll see the similarity."

We round the bend, and a war hammer seems to strike the air from my gut.

The field is afire. Charred timbre wagons and blackened flesh mar the air with foul fumes. Scattered pyres smoulder, glowing with embers. Bodies and charred ropes are piled carefully, almost artistically across the earth.

"By the Nine…" I breathe. "What happened here? These look like farmers, Fortis. Common people. This can't have been a battle." I notice a tiny child's corpse heaped over the remains of its parents, and something heaves in my gut. I choke back a bilious spew of bile. "Gods save us. What is this? An accident? Or a ritual?"

"I don't know," Fortis shakes his head. The Imperial bladesman grimaces. "There was a blast of something. Magic I suppose. There was a cry and someone lit up the very heavens with fire as soon as we passed by on the main road. It shook the very fibres of the air and spooked the horses. And then came the screams…" He shudders. "We tried to save as many as we could, but it was too late for most. The flames were immense. Arcturus is in the Chapel of Bruma with the last of them. I've been keeping watch over the road for you to pass by. I didn't want to miss you on the mountain climb."

A lump forms in my throat, fury and horror leaking at the corners of my eyes. My knuckles grow pale, and I leap from the saddle to walk amongst the carnage.

The burning pyres are scattered across the rock-strewn field, where the Battle of Bruma once raged. They curve oddly, as though forming intricate patterns.

"At least the bloody bastards had respect enough for the dead to give them some kind of burial," Fortis murmurs bitterly. "As poor as it is. I'd love to stick him through with my blade. But there were so many in need. We never saw who did it." I follow the path of burning victims, choking back nausea. The remains form curious circles and lines, dots and angular dashes of burning timber and bodies.

Something clicks, and I stop dead in my tracks.

"By the Nine…no," I gasp, turning on my heel to face my friend. "No. These are no funeral pyres, Fortis. It's a script. A message in Daedric script." I exhale sharply. The singed earth arcs in the strange letterforms, once foreign and now half forgotten. I trace through them once more, feeling the curves like that of a quill. Memories stir like the pages of a dusty tome. The image comes to mind: curled in a corner of the Temple Library, Martin sits across from me, a leather-bound volume spread between us. Strange letters arc and swirl across the vellum in glossy ink, as he explains the inner workings of the Mythic Dawn and Daedric lore.

A jolt seems to pierce through me, as I piece together the letters and words.

 _Dawn yet rises_.

I turn, and catch sight of the tattered crimson banner, hung on a post. It flutters in the wind, bearing a golden insignia.

Something plummets in my chest.

"Azura's bones… This is the sigil of the Mythic Dawn," I breathe.

* * *

 **Author's End Note** : And so the plot groundwork thickens. Stay tuned for fluffy-to-steamy levels of romance, battles, and a myriad of dark, grim and adventurous occurrences. And please leave a thought, prediction, idea, critique or opinion below.

Cheers,

-Mintermist


	7. Chapter Two: Secrecy - Part I

**CHAPTER TWO - SECRECY - PART I  
**

* * *

 _15 First Seed 4E 5, 6:13AM  
North of the Imperial City  
_ **  
**The thunder of hooves echoes across the dusty road, a tumultuous clamouring of iron and cobblestone that races the first rays of light. White-Gold tower rises on the horizon like a celestial being, peering over the grandeur of the Imperial City with the weak rays of dawn. Graceful white stone looms in intricate layers tinged with rays of rose and light gold. They form a monolithic maze of bridges, villas and archways. For a moment, I can almost smell the rich earth of the Elven Gardens, pungent and heady. The half-remembered dust of a half-forgotten tome at the Arcane University tickles my nose, the vellum yellowed with time. A sweet cup of mead at the All-Saints Inn teases my tongue. The brine of the Waterfront District fills my lungs. The memories coat my parched throat and I shake the longing from my shoulders, fixing my weary eyes on the tower spire.

The heart of Imperial power.

 _Albeit tattered power,_ I muse darkly, a bitter aftertaste on my lips.

Amidst the rustling leaves of the trees, larks regale the rising sun with worshipful hymns. Wildflowers perfume the air with incense, and nature awakens to praise the new day. The notes chorus in a round, Kynareth's choir echoing amidst the quiet.

Quiet shattered only by our steeds.

The horses' hooves are cacophonous war drums clattering through the peace. Their muscles ripple with each stride, instruments of power. Each breath is that of ragged percussion, as their nostrils flare sharply and perspiration runs across their arched necks like staves. Manes damp with exertion snap like the strings of a lute and a wave of dust billows in our wake in a dense crescendo. Each step is a harried trill, uneven and frantic.

To the right, Baurus and Fortis ride in sombre silence, eyes grim and fixed on the road ahead. Grime paints their faces with dark strokes, masks befitting of their disguises. A young Bladesman –Levin— canters ahead with a pinched expression, eyes wary as a skeever.

The ride from Bruma weighs gravely on us all.

Akara dozes in the saddle before me, her eyelids hooded with fatigue. I clasp my daughter close, blinking off my own exhaustion to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. Álogo roils beneath us, and my body matches the rhythm of the appaloosa's powerful strides. The leather of the reins is smooth and worn beneath my fingertips, and I close my eyes a moment, feeling a sense of oneness with the beast.

Beneath the velvet ink of my closed lids, there is a flash of fire and memory. Screams echo, followed by the dying moans of men, scorched and strewn about the chapel hall on ramshackle cots. The scent of blood, ash and death clots the sacred air.

" _Dawn rises."_

I suppress a shudder. The words echo – unbidden— with whispered fervour, an ominous bell tone amid the morning glory. The speaker's voice is pitiful, weak and burned, seared into my ears for time immemorial. I close my eyes, attempting to blot out the charred hand grasping for mine in the Bruman Temple Hall a day hence. The flesh is puckered and igneous as a stone in Oblivion, melted near to the bone by magic and ill intent. Angry scarlet sores break out amongst blackened flesh, and the man moans from the low cot. Haunted eyes gleam white, half blinded by smoke, as his weak lips repeat the words like a horrific mantra.

" _Dawn rises… Gods save us from the morn. Dawn rises."_

The Hall resounds with groans.

Magic rises at my fingers, gentle golden light, but Cirroc –the resident healer of the Great Chapel of Talos—shakes his head dolefully.

"I've tried it all," the Redguard whispers. Pain edges between his brows as he tenderly watches over his charges. "The poor souls are too far gone. The magic just causes agony. The most we can do is soothe their pain and ease their passing." He leans over and brings a flask of something herbed to the man's lips. The burned victim splutters and gags horribly a moment, before his breathing settles and he whimpers gratefully. Cirroc places a gentle russet hand over his brow.

A lump forms at my throat, my eyes transfixed by the charred form of a child lain across the cot next to the man. The small chest rises minutely, and the girl's hair is scorched to her scalp. She mewls quietly. Another lies beside her, with victims stretching the width and breadth of the room.

"How is this possible?" I exhale, blinking back a boiling flue of rage. Cirroc looks up at me with a haggard expression.

"Frankly, Pelenix, it's not. Or rather it shouldn't be," the Redguard healer says bleakly, shaking his head. He brushes his hands over his fur-covered tunic, leaving smears of ash and crimson. "You of all people must have heard what they say," he continues, his voice muted. "That the Mythic Dawn disbanded. Collapsed, really. Martin, may he rest in peace, stopped their prophecy from being fulfilled."

"And Mankar is dead and the gates closed," I add gravely. The scar beneath my robe twinges slightly, faded to a jagged white line. "But assuming that it was the remnant… what would survivors have to gain by burning the innocent?" I ask. Cirroc scowls in contempt. An amulet of Talos swings at his throat.

"What does any murderous dog gain from tearing life away from the world? If I had the answer, we'd have the bastards rotting in the Castle dungeon," he spits. The layman's voice is full of unusual poison. "Gods know, though, that it might not even be the Mythic Dawn. It could be others using their name to stir up fear. The Nine know how many renegades are grasping for the Emperor's throne. And fear is a powerful ally."

The Redguard passes over a row, administering his draught with tenderness. I follow mutely.

"Y-you," a woman's voice whimpers. A feeble hand clasps at my wrist, and I start. "I knew you'd come," the voice wheezes. Smoke swathes the Bosmer woman's lungs, and she hacks like a battle-axe. Lacerations mar her skin, a deadly crisscross of scarlet smudged with cinders. The charred remains of a viridian gown cover her torso. Head to toe she is streaked with soot. "W-why didn't you… come sooner?" she rattles. Pity pricks at my eyes.

"I didn't know," I breathe, squeezing her hand lightly. The Bosmer hacks a laugh.

" _I_ knew you'd come," she rasps. "And I told them so, I did. And then they… they did this… t-to me." She points to her shredded skin. My heart drops as I notice that the wood elf's pointed ears have been torn and bandaged. "And…and they… they said to give you this…" She coughs, a wheezing fit that shakes her being.

"Hush, Desdra, hush." Cirroc soothes. "Don't trouble yourself—"

Something slices at my gut as Desdra shakes her head, reaching into the smoky folds of her skirt. A blackened dagger falls from her grasp, edged with Daedric runes. I pick it up from the cool slate floors, holding the jagged edges tentatively. A carved sun adorns the handle.

"That's what they… did it with," she coughs. "They said to give it to you and say this is only the beginning. I am but the first. Dawn… _rises_."

"Pelenix!" Baurus calls, snapping me from the memory. The solidness of the dusty road crashes through my senses. A film of dirt settles over my tongue, dry and stodgy. Birds flit from tree to tree, and the horizon is bathed in hues of gold, amber and rose. The Redguard sighs, raising his eyebrows at me. He pulls off his cap, running a hand over his sweaty brow.

"Enough philosophizing. We're here, thank the Gods."

I turn my head blearily, and start. My heart soars.

The main gate to the city looms at the end of an elegant, curving bridge. Columns edge the wide promenade, statuesque and imperious. Walls gilded with alcoves and flame rise behind it, shielding the six grand districts within. An unbidden grin breaks across my features with a stream of morning sunlight.

I nip my heels against Álogo's sides and the beast's hooves clatter across the paved white stone, gaining speed. My hair whips around my face, adrenaline coursing through my lungs. Torches flare on either side of the long bridge as we gain on the gate. In front of me, Akara shrieks with excitement.

I smile, joining in the chorus.

 _Martin, I'm home._


	8. Chapter Two: Secrecy - Part II

**CHAPTER TWO - SECRECY - PART II**

* * *

"Now, I know The Feed Bag isn't fancy, but it fills you up," Arcturus shrugs apologetically, ushering us from the soft morning light into the inn. "And it was the only place in the city where I could find us enough rooms. I guess the people are flocking to the capital for the festival." The Imperial Blade's blue eyes are startlingly light against his tan skin. An ill-fitting farmer's tunic hangs over his muscular frame. An Akaviri dagger rests –poorly concealed— at his hip.

"I wanted to stay at mama's house by the water!" Akara sulks. I suppress the urge to agree. There is no place quite like home, however humble and dilapidated. I run a hand through the little girl's hair, ruffling her light brown locks with a sigh.

"The Waterfront District is no place for a little lady, pet," I concede. "And there isn't enough room for the six of us there. But I'll show you another time. We'll visit all of our houses across Cyrodiil."

"But I want to see—" Akara whinges.

"Akara," I admonish. The little girl pouts. Fatigue paints violet shadows around her eyes. I take her hand.

"It's for the best. We should stay discreet," Baurus adds mutedly. "We don't want to be attracting too much attention. If there are eyes looking for you, Pelenix, they'll be watching your every door." I nod, absent-minded, as my eyes adjust to the room.

The shabby Market District inn is dim. Diffused light glows through narrow glass panes, as turquoise as a Weynon stone, casting slim blue beams over the rugged stone walls. Suspended between the arched windeye alcoves, modest viridian tapestries adorn the walls and lessen the chill draught. Candles flicker in lanterns hung overhead. At the center of the room, roughhewn round tables shaped from timber dot the space, laden with wooden plates and tankards of ale. My mouth waters at the smell of fresh baked bread.

Behind the bar, a Dunmer garbed in a ragged sackcloth tunic and clattering wooden clogs polishes a tankard. There are cavernous grooves around his deep crimson eyes. His greying hair is pulled back in a knot at the nape of his neck and a rusty iron mace hangs at his hip. The steel is brittle with age.

"Delos Fandas," I nod my head to the publican, tossing a purse of golden septims on the counter. The metal clinks merrily. "It's been a while, my old friend. I'm glad to see you're still in business." The Dunmer's eyes widen, and he drops the tankard. A reminiscent grin breaks out across the Dark Elf's features, tinged with astonishment and wonder.

"Surely it can't be—"

I shake my head curtly, grateful for the desolation of the inn. My companions shift nervously.

"It's good to see you, but please, not a word, Fandas. I'm only in the city to pay my respects at the festival."

"Ah. Yes. The city is abuzz in honour of Martin. Folks are swarming from far and wide. It's chaos," Delos nods knowingly, retrieving the fallen flagon. "But the gods know we're indebted to the bastard… erm. Well. You know what I mean. Now, who have we here?" He peers curiously at the five gathered at my flank. I bite my cheek.

"It... doesn't matter. I just need to ask for the utmost discretion during our stay," I offer, with more fire than intended. I shoulder my pack, leaning on one hip and nod to the purse. "But please. Keep the gold. There'll be far more of that at the end of our stay in return for your loyalty and silence."

His gape shifts into an eager nod, as he deftly pockets the gold.

"Of course, friend!" He bows his head surreptitiously. "Many thanks for your patronage. My lips are sealed by the Nine themselves. And here. A drink on me for the blessed Champion and her friends," He grins, gleeful, and whips three bottles of mead from the bar, pouring them into carafes. His gaze turns to Akara and he raises his eyebrows. "Oh. That's highly unexpected. I thought she was a Dwarf, for all that it'd be impossible. Ah well. Yes. Milk for that one," he muses, before turning back to me. "Now, Kayta! It's been so long since you were here last. But you've come for Septim Eve, you say?"

I hesitate, and then nod, accepting the proffered flagon. The aroma of honey and spice wafts from the flask, and I breathe in the amber warmth with pleasure.

"Yes... It seemed that after five years it was overdue. I haven't been back to the Imperial City since Ma—… since the Emperor's sacrifice." _Martin's sacrifice_. His name catches at my throat. I wash it down with a sip of mead, the honey rich on my tongue. Bittersweet and cool.

Delos nods knowingly, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

"Folks have wondered where you've been, Champion. Bards sing of your deeds but you're out of sight. Out of Cyrodiil, perhaps?" He waves a hand nonchalantly. "Not even a week past I heard a pilgrim pair of lamenting your absence," he chuckles. "And now, would you _lookit_ that. You're in my inn. What an honour!" The Dunmer slaps a dusky hand against the counter with a guffaw.

"And your discretion is appreciated," Baurus intones coolly. Delos nods, his eyes full of excitement.

"Yes, yes, of course. Now, if there's anything you or your friends require, you have only to ask. The rooms are just upstairs, newly quartered off with every last septim I own. The first three on the right are yours. Two to a room, mind you." He withdraws three keys from the pocket of his breeches and slides them across the counter. "Don't lose these. Besides my master copy, they're the only ones to your rooms."

I down the flagon, and nod in thanks. I pocket the bronze key and taking Akara by the hand. The steps creak wearily beneath our boots, oaken boards stained by grime and age, and my little girl totters unevenly.

"Careful little love," I murmur. Delos's eyes burn at the back of my cloak, as we slip up the stairs. The Blades shoulder their packs, feet lumbering up behinds us. I slip the landing door shut, as our party branches into pairs.

"Can we buy a sweetroll from Feldos?" Akara asks sleepily. "I don't want Álogo to get hungry."

" _Delos_ , pet," I correct, glancing at the key. An elegant _3_ is engraved in its handle. "And I don't know about that. Sweetrolls are tasty, but I don't think the horses like them much. But they'll have nice feed in the stables instead, so don't you worry about anything but cozying up to sleep."

"But I don't wanna sleep," Akara slurs blearily. "And besides, Álogo loves sweetrolls." I slip the key into the latch of the third door, and it pops open with a _click_ , revealing a simple whitewashed room. Two narrow beds are crammed between a derelict armoire and a washbasin. At the edge of the room, a wide window leads to the rooftop gable, overlooking the courtyard below. A thin pane of glass guards the chamber from the elements.

"It's been a long night, little love. We can talk about sweetrolls and horses _after_ you sleep."

"When we visit the Temple?" Akara's sleepy eyes light up. I nod, helping her out of her riding cloak into a warmly woven sleep shift. I run a hand through her tousled hair, gently untangling the knots.

"When we visit the Temple," I echo, pulling back the downy coverlet. The little girl climbs in, and I sit on the floor beside the cot. Blue eyes blink in time with her familiar brown ones, and a swell of emotion rises over me.

"I love you, little lamb," I croon.

"I love you, mama," she smiles, snuggling against the pillow.

I plant a kiss on the little girl's brow, watching her rhythmic breathing slow drowsily. Her eyelids droop against the soft curve of her cheek, dark lashes contrasting against the porcelain. Tiny rosebud lips inhale and exhale a gentle flurry of warmth. Within moments, dreams begin to dance before her closed eyes. Utterly peaceful. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

 _Dawn rises_.

The words seem to echo, a violent reverberation shattering my bliss.

Slowly, I sit back on the second bed, rummaging through my pack. The jagged dagger sits on the top of the pile of provisions and I pull it out with trepidation. The hilt is long and grooved, carved with unfamiliar Daedric runes, half worn by use. The metal is unnaturally cool, darkened like wildfire smoke. An emblem of the cult sun gleams menacingly at the base of the hilt.

 _Dawn rises_.

I blink away the images of the chapel victims, and silently slip into the hall.

"Baurus," I call softly, knocking on the door of the second room. The Redguard opens it, stripped down from his riding gear to a rough linen chemise and breeches. His dark skin is like burnished bronze. He holds a wedge of cheese in one hand.

"Need something, Pelenix?" He asks gruffly, tearing off a hunk of cheese. I grimace, casting a glance down the hall, and nod.

"I can't get what happened in Bruma out of my mind…"

The man shuts his eyes, nodding in concurrence.

"I know. I see it too. It reminded me of the Battle of Bruma. So many wounded," he falls silent, chewing his lip. "You think it's really the Mythic Dawn?"

"I don't know. It's possible, I suppose. But I want to get an appraisal of the dagger they left–the one they tortured the Bosmer woman with. Just to be sure."

His face twists.

"Damn. Well, I just sent Levin to arrange a private meeting in the Temple with Tandilwe for this evening. Just to give you and Akara some privacy." Baurus sighs. "Fortis and Arcturus are already asleep. Need me to run it to a shop?"

"No, I need to take it. I have an old… _friend_ in the city. He's the best when it comes to tracing origins, but he can smell guards from a mile away though and would balk at anyone but me. So I guess what I'm asking is would you mind keeping an eye on Akara in the meantime?"

"What am I, a nursemaid?" The Blade jokes. I roll my eyes.

"Yes, Sir Nursemaid. But really, this is important. And so is my daughter. I don't want to leave her on her own. She's asleep, but I don't want her sneaking out to find the stables again."

Baurus nods, scratching his head.

"Of course, of course. I took an oath with Jauffre when you came to us five years ago. And she's a funny lass, that girl of yours."

A tender smile escapes at the corners of my mouth. I tuck the dagger into the hilt of my belt and pass Baurus the room key.

"Yes… she's like her father."

* * *

 **Author's End Note: So, I admit, this is the biggest plot-intro-groundwork-layout I've done for something that isn't original, so I hope that for those of you that are reading it's not too filler-y. There is a purpose. Behind even odd details. Things are about to get very real. I'd love it if you leave a thought, comment, prediction, idea, critique or random word in the review below. Good morning or good night, depending on where you are in this beautiful world!**

 **Cheers,**

 **-Mintermist**


	9. Chapter Two: Secrecy - Part III

**CHAPTER TWO - SECRECY - PART III**

* * *

 _15 First Seed 4E 5, 10:08AM  
_ _Market District, Imperial City_

Morning blinks over the city, golden and bleary-eyed. Soft light motes dance allemandes on the breeze with the dust of travellers' boots. On either side of the promenade, crisp marble shops tower above the street, adorned with signs and crowned with emerald slate roofs. Festival pennants flutter gently in the breeze bearing the sigil of Akatosh. Gorse bushes peek at the base of verandas like royal baubles.

Both little and everything has changed.

The Market District rustles beneath dawn's gaze, a mosaic of dozy shopkeepers, noble shoppers and slinking urchins. _Jensine's "Good As New," A Fighting Chance, The Copious Coinpurse_. I smile as I pass once-frequented doors, taking in the scents and sounds of the street. Doorways and shutters snap open with a clap as I pass. The soft brush of brooms sweeps the grit from doorsteps and the voices of peddlers echo from inside doorways. Shop boys careen down the lane at the beck of their masters' orders, caps askew and grime on their noses.

Posted at each street corner, the City Watch peer groggily at passers-by. Their steel armour gleams proudly, as they slouch wearily on their halberds. _Waiting for the relief guards,_ I muse. One turns my way, eyes intent, and I avert my gaze, pulling my cowl close. _No sense in being recognized._ I brush past quickly, playing the eager visitor. My eyes sweep the street, taking in the familiar sight anew. The wide, cobbled avenues are rife with the rich perfume of spices, foreign tongues and squawking merchants. The scent of bread rises from a shop. Septims jingle in pockets. Shoulders brush and voices fall.

"Get your copy of the Black Horse Courier!" A messenger calls, waving a stack of parchment pamphlets. "Festival edition!" Overhead, clouds waft lazily through the air.

A bittersweet smile dances over my lips. Even in the wake of uncertainty, life carries on.

I turn left, past _First Edition_ , and slip through the huge gates to Green Emperor Way, the central district of the city. The wood of the doors is solid and rough beneath my hands. Grounding, as memory peeks through my mind, flashing images of both peace and war. Fire and Daedra. High Chancellor Ocato, the Amulet of Kings, and Martin. Martin in his Imperial robes.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself.

 _One foot in front of the other, Pelenix._ I walk down the path, passing the tombs of lost denizens on either side of the green. There are more than there once were. Fly Amanita spout like guardians over the graves. At the centre of the district, surrounded by a grand colonnade, the Imperial Palace overlooks the countryside. A majestic white behemoth, the statuesque bastion rises high overhead, housing the Elder Council Chambers.

Snatches of conversation dance on the breeze as I make my way around the arc of the central promenade.

"…what can they do? There is… heir…"

"High Chancellor Ocato will know best… he's addressing… people…at the festival."

"But what can he do?"

A shiver passes over my spine, and I thank the Nine for the secret of Akara's parentage. Turmoil enshrouds Cyrodiil, tugging at the very threads that hold her together. Threats and fear rule the crumbling state—threats and fear Akara is safest without.

I steal off the promenade to the Talos Plaza District, putting the Palace to my back and eager to give the Temple District a wide berth. Beneath my simple robe, I run my fingers along the hilt of the peculiar dagger, pressing the carving of the rising sun against my palm. Questions seep from the jagged blade, wrapped in a leather sheath. I bite back the swell of confusion.

Contemptuous eyes bore through me as I meander through the plaza district's winding roads. Elegant houses line the streets, graceful white villas lodging the city's wealthiest residents. Whitewashed in the shade of climbing foliage, the air all but clinks with septims and luxury. A stately dragon statue sits in the center of the district.

I pull my threadbare robe close, hurrying along the lane to the gate at the end of the street.

A guard steps in my path, eyes leering. His breath stinks and his eyes are bleary from a night watch steeped with excess ale.

"Oh ho ho! Stop right there, little lass. Where do you think you're headed?" His eyes trail up and down my robe like sticky paws.

"The Waterfront," I say sternly, my sword arm twitching. "And I'm not your lass." The Imperial tuts drunkenly.

"Tch. No, no, tha' can't be right. Could've sworn I saw you in my bed once. Now, let's get a look at you." He tugs back my cowl and whistles. His hand lingers too long on my hair and I resist the urge to break his nose. "Aye, you're headed the wrong way. My bed is that way, little cleric."

I suppress a gag and sidestep the drunk, gliding into my mistaken role with scorn.

" _I_ am a priestess of Stendarr!" I exclaim, derision coating my voice and scorn painting a mask.

"Stend—?"

"The God of Mercy. Charity. Justice. Protect the weak, heal the sick and give to the needy. You're holding me up from my charge."

The guard raises his hands, uncertain. Lewd disappointment burns in his eyes.

"I—"

"You what?" I breathe fire. "Drinking at your post, sir?"

"M-my apologies…I mistook you for a priestess of Dibella. Not Stendarr." He stammers.

"Then pray the Nine give you one. But that's not me. And if this happens again, your captains will hear of it."

I slip past with a grimace, shouldering through the gate to the City Isle. The fresh scent of brine twinged with sour rum greets my senses like a bawdy tavern tale. Something quickens in my pulse, and I hurry down the sloping City Isle path, dust trimming the hem of my robe.

At the base of the hill, the Waterfront District stretches out like a lethargic vagabond. The Lighthouse stands at its center, flanked by the ships of pirates and the _Bloated Float_ _Inn_. A mottled collection of beggars, pirates and brigands lounge about the docks, their faces harrowed and worn. A handful of nervous guards patrol the walkway.

I skirt along the edge of the lighthouse, squaring my shoulders and keeping the cowl low over my face as I glance over the faces of the denizens gathered along the water's edge. _Carwen. Hillod. Dranas._ I count the district's inhabitants. Unfamiliar faces have joined their ranks over the past five years, marred by the familiar pinched look of the Waterfront's residents. Dunmer, Bretons and Bosmer huddle together amid the crates. A Khajiit plays on wooden pipes.

The end of the Oblivion crisis was unkind to many, I gather from the missing limbs of a few individuals.

I circle the docks once, eyes wide and searching for a piece of the past. The Garden of Dareloth sits forlorn, as does the shore, and I curse mildly beneath my breath. The dagger weighs intently beneath my robe.

As I round the corner, a snatch of music and laughter trickles from the deck of the _Bloated Float Inn_. I pause before picking up the hem of my robe and crossing the gangplank threshold. Chimes clatter as I enter.

Even in the morning light, the inn is dim. Candles sputter weakly in lanterns and sconces, as patrons dine and chatter. Cluttered barrels line the walls, brimming with wine and preserved apples. The air is steeped with the thick, sweet aroma of liquor. Curious eyes peer from darkened corners of the room, unshaven and grisly. A braided Kahjiit and a tattooed Breton play dice at one table, alternately toasting with bottles of Tamika's West Weald Wine and uttering colourful curses. The Altmer publican, Ormil, grins as I enter. "Well met, well met," he nods. I raise a hand in silent greeting.

I scan the Tavern Deck, eyeing corsairs and miscreants until I see him. A wave of relief surges through my chest.

The solid build of the man's shoulders are both broad and deceptive. He sits nursing a pint of beer, a coarse linen tunic covering his torso. His skin is a deep shade of Hammerfell heritage and a long scar runs over his cheek.

I edge between the tables, skirting past patrons until I hover at his shoulder. I clear my throat.

"I really don't have time for the likes of you," the Redguard drawls, scarcely glancing up from his meal.

I lean against the table and pluck a sweetroll from his plate, pulling back my cowl before he can protest.

"Not even for old friends? It's been a long time, Armand."

"You?" Armand Christophe's eyes narrow, hardening into ebony and coal. "By the Nine, you have a lot of nerve showing your face around here after what you pulled." His voice is stone and iron. "Or maybe you're just plain stupid." His eyes flit across the tavern.

"If a bit of stupid has gotten me this far, I'll take it," I shrug, taking a bite from the pastry. Hunger gurgles in my belly as the sweet flakes dissolve on my tongue. Apple and honey. "But my apologies for the five-year vanishing act. I would have written, but I figured that a letter addressed to you and the Grey Fox wouldn't have gone over so well with the Imperial Couriers." The Thieves Guild Doyen barks gratingly, his face curling into a sneer. He takes a swig of frothing beer from his tankard, smacking his lips before clanking the carafe onto the table. Droplets of amber run down the side of the flagon, pooling on the oaken boards.

I pull up a chair, the solid wood grating against the creaking floorboards.

"Listen, Armand—" My voice is hushed.

"Armand? _Armand_. Like she never disappeared. Like we're bosom friends!" Armand scoffs, his voice a little too loud. "Call me that again and I'll send you out of here on your ass, Pelenix." A hushed whisper ripples through the tavern. I clench my teeth, shooting fire from my eyes. Christophe's face is dark and unperturbed and he takes another swig of beer. "What? Don't you remember? You bailed when we needed you," he snaps. "The most glorious heist in the history of Tamriel and you were gone." He slams a fist on the table. I wince.

"Look," I mutter through clenched teeth. "I can't change the past, and I won't make excuses. Let's let bygones be bygones. But something big is happening, and I need your help, Christophe."

"And then the lost pup comes begging. How sweet," he spits, pushing back his plate. "Unfortunately, I'm in no mood for charity tonight. So keep on walking back to wherever you've been." He swings back from the chair and elbows past me, tossing a septim to Ormil for the meal.

I scowl and spin after him, my robe flapping around my feet. Chimes jingle as I push through the entryway in brassy cacophony. The Redguard stalks ahead, taking long strides in the morning light.

"Damn it, Armand! Stop!" I call as he rounds the corner. I break into a run and grab him by the shoulders.

The Thief spins on his heels, eyes blazing. He lunges. Knife in hand.

Something lurches in my gut. Shock. I barely sidestep the swipe.

I reach for a dagger, but the Redguard pushes me back against a wall.

"Be quiet." He grabs my wrist, forcing the small blade from my grasp. His voice is a low hiss, scarcely above a whisper. "Or are you _trying_ to get us killed? There's no need for that." The dagger falls from my grip and the Redguard glares. "Listen up. Sorry about the theatrics. But damn it, you've gotten sloppy, Pelenix," he says. His voice is deathly low and level in my ear. The rough shadow of a beard grates my cheek and his words are tinged with hot breath. "I'd've thought the Guild taught you better than to be tailed."

"What—? I…you _did._ And then I left the Guild." I glower. "And tailed? What are you talking about? Let go of my wrist."

His eyes flit left and he grimaces. His grip tightens at my wrist.

"Damn it," he spits, "I was right. You have a shadow, Kayta. Bosmer. And no, don't look!" He grabs my chin forcing me to look him in the eyes. "Listen. I don't know why he's following you, but I'd rather not end up dead or behind bars for whatever you did."

"For what _I_ did? I've been gone for five years. How do you know _you_ don't have a shadow," I hiss.

He rolls his eyes.

"For the Champion of Cyrodiil, you can be really fucking dense," he growls. The words are almost tender. "I know because he followed you into the damn inn and followed you out. Never seen him before, and I see everyone 'round here. By the Nine, why else do you think I put on that scene back there? You don't think I'm actually angry that you left the guild, do you?" He snorts, shaking his head minutely. "Maybe I was when you abandoned us at the heist. You had talent. But that was five years ago. You had your reasons. No, I had to figure out if my gut was right. Whatever he's watching you for, that elf is bad news. And _no_ ," He restrains my wrist. "No, you can't go and gut him. Little birds like that always have bigger friends watching. I don't want to tip them off. You said you needed help. Out with it while he's out of earshot. You can chase him to your heart's content after."

I scowl.

"Fine," I snap, taking a quick breath. "I have something that I need your people to trace. A dagger. I haven't seen anything like it, and I need to know where it came from. I can pay like any other client." I quickly tell him about the massacre in the fields of Bruma and the whispers among the victims of the Mythic Dawn.

The Redguard raises an eyebrow.

"You're joking. Everyone knows that ordeal ended when the Septim bastard sacrificed himself. The Oblivion gates are closed."

"I know. Of course they are. But something is happening; do you think I'd be traipsing through the Waterfront if it weren't? I need to get to the bottom of this before it happens again. They knew I was coming in Bruma, somehow."

Armand whistles low beneath his breath.

"Beware little birds amongst your friends," he cautions, shaking his head. "By the Nine. Burning human pyres, cryptic runes, mystery daggers…you sure know how to pick your enemies, Pelenix." I roll my eyes.

"It's a talent. But can you help?" Christophe's eyes are impassable, but he nods slowly.

"I'll have my people look things over tonight. Stop by Thoronir's _Copious_ _Coinpurse_ tomorrow before you leave town. He'll tell you whatever we find. But go now. And sorry, but it'll have to look like I'm robbing you to your little _boiche_ friend over there."

"What— _oof_!" Armand knocks the wind from my gut and I stagger. His hands deftly remove a purse of septims and the dagger from my belt. I glare up at him, gasping for breath.

"Thanks for the deserter's fee. Compliments of the Grey Fox," he nods. His face grows grave. Ominous. "And Pelenix…don't come back." _Until you've fixed this_ , his eyes seem to say.

The Redguard slinks out of sight and I turn slightly, gasping for air and propped against the wall. I glance over the pier. The waves of the bay lap gently against the docks. That's when I see him. A Bosmer clad in a dark tunic. His eyes are wicked sharp and intent. Small golden rings glint in his pointed ears. Our eyes lock and his lips break into a wide grin. I start, trepidation swirling across my spine, as he suddenly vanishes into thin air with a flicker of mage light.

Secrets gone without answers.

* * *

 **Author's End Note:** **Winter is coming. Wait. Wrong fandom. But that's the gist of things. With over 1,000 words of point form notes for the next few chapters stored safely on my computer, I have such a clear idea of where this is headed, both short- and long-term. Which is exciting. Because it's about to get real exciting. I hope you're enjoying the setup. Stick with me; the romance/intrigue/excitement/adventure is building. I promise. My favourite character isn't even here yet.**

 **Anyways, I appreciate the time you've taken to read. Thank you! Please leave a thought, con-crit, idea, suggestion or just general review below.**

 **Cheers,**

 **-Mintermist**


	10. Chapter Three: First Dark - Part I

CHAPTER THREE - FIRST DARK - PART I

* * *

 _15 First Seed 4E 5, 10:41PM  
_ _Green Emperor Way, Septim Eve Festival_

"Where are we going?" Akara giggles. The little girl's voice is full of stars, her sweet brown eyes wide and sparkling. She bobs at the heel of my robe, tiny hand tucked securely in my own. A woven bag of roasted chestnuts swings from her fist. With a giggle of delight, she pops one into her mouth, crunching without a care.

For a moment, the simplicity melts my unease.

But only for a moment.

"You'll see, Akara," I smile, bittersweet and tender, steering our way through the bustling throng.

The streets surrounding the Imperial Palace ebb with vibrancy, a living tapestry of twilit festivalgoers, performers and merchants. Torches crackle, bathing Green Emperor Way in dancing light and flickering shadow. Everything is alive. The evening air is threaded with music, like a braid of coloured ribbons. Warbling pipes hum alongside trilling flutes. Romantic lutes sing in harmony with the rhythm of tabors. Shawms and horns trumpet ceremoniously. The melodies intermingle in a wild, festive symphony.

Septim Eve dances.

Around us, laughter bubbles in a joyous swell, tinged with the chatter of a thousand voices. They lilt and rise with the tune of foreign tongues, spinning together from across the Empire. Pilgrims and citizens, rich and poor, gathered as one beneath White Gold Tower. Faces pass in a parade-like blur, cast in golden torchlight. Each one looks like a jewelled carnival mask. Shadowy Dunmer and noble Imperial. Fair Nord and hardy Breton. Proud Redguard and haughty Altmer. Gruff Orc and cunning Argonian. Sly Khajiit…

And nimble Bosmer.

My breath hitches at the passing glint of hoops in the pointed ears of a Wood Elf, and alarm prickles over my skin. I can still picture it, the image of _the_ Bosmer vanishing at the Waterfront this morning, his knowing smile sharp as a blade. My legs ache faintly, reminiscent of my morning pursuit through the districts— a twisting trail ending in naught but raised brows and a questioning reprimand from Baurus.

The shadow remains. Invisible and lurking. _Watching_ , gods know why. And now this Bosmer –a mere commoner enjoying the festivities— brushes past with her partner, utterly oblivious to my unease. A small breath escapes my lips and I pull Akara closer.

" _Are you sure it'll be safe to visit the Temple?"_ Baurus's words echo from the recesses of the afternoon. The ghost of the Redguard's furrowed brows looms before my vision, steeped in caution and reason. The news of my waterfront episode did not sit well with the Blade. I bite the inside of my cheek, my gaze tracing every passing face.

 _Little is certain,_ I think bleakly. I throw a wary glance over my shoulder.

Baurus lumbers at our tail, close enough to watch and far enough to avoid curious eyes. The Blade's face is sharp and wary; his dark skin glows as rich as a coin in candlelight. A silent sentinel, the man rests a casual hand on the dagger concealed at his hip. A shroud of grey wool hangs from his shoulders like that of a festival pilgrim. " _If you're still planning on going, I'm coming with you, Pelenix."_ His words echo in my mind, brimming with loyalty. " _Champion or not, you and I didn't survive the Oblivion crisis to take chances and get knifed by some invisible elf. We'll get one of the others to join, too. No chances."_

I shoot my friend a grateful look, pulling my cowl close. He nods imperceptibly, slipping into the crowd. I turn, holding Akara's hand as we cross the avenue. Ahead, Fortis weaves between festivalgoers, carving a path through the sea of bodies. The crown of the tall man's dark hair is barely visible above the throng, and my pace quickens in order to keep step with him. Every so often, he pauses to admire a performance or to browse a stall, blending in with the casual air of a pilgrim. As he does, I catch glimpses of his hawk like gaze scanning the periphery for the slightest threat.

If anything, my companions are thorough.

Still, my eyes dart from face to face, wary, and I trace a fingertip over the wicked dagger strapped to the inside of my forearm. The elven blade is cool and light against my skin. The carved groove of the hilt enshrouds the vane like golden claws. _Sufferthorn_ , my tutors called it. Tucked beneath the loose folds of my robe, it thrums quietly with the faint crimson glow of magicka. Its edges nip at my flesh with a sanguine hunger.

"… _a humble blade, to be sure, but far deadlier than the sword. One fluid motion from the wrist, my dear child, and you'll embed it to the hilt between a man's ribs."_ My arm twitches slightly at the long-forgotten memory of my tutor, shrouded in black beneath the streets of Cheydinhal. A past put to rest…

We round a corner to be greeted by the wafting smoke of roast venison and braised slaughterfish. Tankards and bottles clink merrily; both wine and mead flow thick and sweet tonight. On either side of the avenue, street performers contort and sashay, swirling colourful scarves. Merchants hawk copper pendants with throaty cries. Their voices intermingle, fighting for prominence.

"You won't find nothing better, ma'am! Remember Martinmas for the rest of your days!"

"Septim Souvenirs for the little lady, ma'am? We've only the finest of wares."  
"Sweetrolls, tarts and brandy! Sweetrolls, tarts and brandy, fresh from the farm!"

"Mama! What's that?" Akara's bright voice quips from amidst the rabble. She tugs on my arm, leaning into the swarming crowd. I turn to follow her gesturing hand. A writhing wall of faces meets my gaze with a roar; an audience as packed as the Arena itself gathers in a tight-knit ring. Elbows jostle shoulders as people crane their necks. Voices squeal and hands thunder applause.

"It's the Hero of Kvatch!" The throng cheers in a rumble of jubilee. I freeze. Rime hardens in my veins with a blast of frigid air. Something scrabbles at my chest, steeped with ice and dread. Wide-eyed, I pull Akara behind me. Cold terror and expectation rise like a—

Not an eye turns our way.

I frown with breath bated, and crane my neck for a better view.

On a raised dais assembled before the doors of the Imperial Palace, a Khajiit man brandishes an elaborately carved wooden sword. His golden fur gleams in the torchlight like a gilt statue. A row of bronze rings glints in his ear. His eyes flash, ochre and fennel, and he is clad in the glass armour of a warrior. It catches the torchlight, casting iridescent prisms.

"Behold! It is I, the Divine Hero of Kvatch, descended from the heights of Aetherius to protect Tamriel at the behest of the Nine themselves!" He exclaims grandly. His voice is like booming timber and velvet. With an acrobat's grace, he pivots across the stage jabbing at invisible foes. His swordwork is fanciful, full of flourishes and excessive swirls. I can't help but snort.

"Look, M'aiq! It's the Kvatchi Players," someone exclaims raucously to my left. "I saw them perform _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ last Tales and Tallows in Bruma. Azura's Bones, aren't they _marvellous_?"

"M'aiq does not understand why men fight for peace, but pretend to fight as soon as they have it," a feline voice retorts acerbically. "Perhaps it is because they do not have a Colovian Fur helm to—"

An animated cheer rumbles through the square, drowning the pair. Bodies press and jostle on either side, crowding the avenue with heat and excitement. Anticipation crackles in the air. Akara totters to a stop, standing on her toes. The crowd dwarfs her diminutive form.

"Did you want to watch, little love?" I ask. My daughter's eyes glow, and she nods vigorously. Something softens in my chest. Her eyes are so like Martin's. "Alright. But just for a moment, Akara. We can't stay too long."

I reach down and hoist my daughter onto my shoulders, elbowing my way through the horde. She giggles, wrapping her arms around the crown of my head. Her gaze is wide with wonder. "Hold on tight," I say.

"There are so many people, mama!" She exclaims with a laugh. "This must be everyone in Nirn!"

"Almost," I grin up at her, weaving between a pair of Orsimer. They grunt and I bob my shrouded head apologetically.

We reach the front of the crowd just as a figure sweeps onto the stage. The Altmer is covered in rouge and sports a pair of goat horns. An inky cape hangs from his bare shoulders, which he swishes menacingly. Around us, the crowd ripples with a chorus of boos, and a shiver runs down my spine.

"I am Lord Mehrunes Dagon, here from Oblivion to purge Cyrodiil of the unbeliever!" The actor snarls, leaping across the stage with a thespian's flair. "Tremble before me. Bow to my might, O mortal weaklings. For the weak shall be winnowed, the timid cast down. The mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon." An ensemble of dancers swirls around him, clad in crudely made robes; poorly rendered suns are daubed on their chests. Their gloved hands cast shadows around the stage like black flames, and their feet pound an ominous rhythm.

Like fire. Like smoke. Like drums.

Memory flares behind my mind's eye of the carnage of Oblivion. Lakes of fires. Daedric battle cries. The stench of brimstone. Followed by the crush of Dagon's form shaking the city streets, entire blocks crumbling as the Daedric prince clashed in fierce battle with Akatosh…

The crowd hisses. I bite my cheek, shaking my head and the darkness away, and cast a glance up at my daughter. Akara's eyes are rapt as she takes in the scene. For a moment, I am grateful to the Nine that for her, this tale will never bear the weight it bears me.

The Khajiit-Champion and Altmer-Dagon leap around the stage, caught in a violent dance. The feline parries and thrusts with his fanciful blade, countering the blows of Dagon with poise. His tail twirls, grasping for balance, his nimble paws dancing circles around his foe. A roaring Elsweyr battle cry echoes from his lips, and Dagon-Elf snarls in return.

The pair circles one another with rolling dodges and lunging thrusts. They sidestep and spiral, twist and jab, moving with an exaggerated kind of grace. The crowd cheers and groans as they do, keeping time with the rhythm of harried steps. Weapons rage and block and slash, and then, with a series of flying leaps, the cat lands nimbly, his blade at Dagon's throat.

"Yield, O Dark One! Your fate is mine! Yield to the light of Aetherius and the Nine!" The Hero-Cat cries. His voice rings through the square, the promise of a valiant soliloquy. "For on this day, you shall not prevail. By the light of…" He launches into a tirade, victory glowing in his eyes. Balancing on my shoulders, Akara sits, rapt, hanging on every word. I can feel her excitement, each tiny gasp and the racing of her heart, as the Khajiit carries on. His poise is grand, his expression regal. But then, Dagon-Elf lets out a shriek.

"Never shall I surrender, O worthless mortal scum! It's too late for you, my cleansing has begun!" Altmer-Dagon says. His rouged hands scrabble at the Hero-Cat's blade, ripping it from the feline's grasp.

"I never knew you were Khajiit, Pelenix." A voice appears at my ear in a low chuckle. Fortis. I roll my eyes, and exhale a small spike of panic. "Or a particularly unpoetic male. The things you learn, huh?" The Blade's voice is light. "Next thing you know the history books will be replacing you with any of the races. If they remember you at all after this, that is."

I snort.

"And I never knew you were a fool," I whisper at his back, my eyes fixed on the stage. Dagon-Elf has the upper hand, forcing Hero-Cat to the ground. Red ribbons spurt from their costumes, reminiscent of blood. My own scars twinge dully beneath my robe with the faintest bite of iron as the Khajiit cries out.

The crowd hisses.

Fortis shrugs impalpably.

"Sometimes," he says. The ghost of a grin tugs at his lips. "Just not today." I glance at the Blade sidelong. His eyes never cease to scan the square, and I can't help but feel a wave of gratefulness. He shakes his head and continues. "In all seriousness, lady knight, I hate to be the one to…uh… spoil the fun here, but it's time. Levin arranged the meeting with Mistress Tandilwe at the temple, and we oughtn't keep her waiting. She can only keep the doors closed for so long on a night such as this."

"Right. Of course," I say, tearing my eyes from the stage. As I do, I can't help but feel some sense hollowness reaching from the past, some ache for the nights before _that_ night. Despite the Oblivion Gates and the cold nights spent camped on hard earth, there was a peculiar comfort in _before_ that has escaped the world of Nirn. I sigh, shouldering the heaviness. "Are you ready to go, Akara?" I ask.

My daughter squirms, her fingers sticky in my hair.

"Do we have to?" She asks. I can't help but smile.

"I know the pageant is exciting, little one," I say, "but we can watch more afterwards. There's a very special lady at the temple that'd love to meet you. Today is a very important day, you see, and we're going to pay our respects."

"Why?" Akara asks, cocking her head to one side. Her voice is flecked with soft curiosity, like the first evening stars or a vein of gold. I open my mouth, and then close it.

Suddenly, a cheer resounds from the crowd, warming the audience. I pause, glancing back at the stage as the red elf pulls his cloak up around his face. The actor's face is contorted with terror, the whites of his eyes visible from afar.

"What is this? No, it cannot be!" Altmer-Dagon exclaims. Drums rumble in unison, and suddenly a figure dressed in a white robe ascends to the stage. An elaborate glass pendant hangs from his throat, painted scarlet, and a magnificent sword is clasped in his hand. The hollowness deepens. Despite the inaccuracies, there is no doubt whom the Breton is meant to represent.

"Make way…for the Emperor!" Hero-Cat cries, escaping Altmer-Dagon's grasp. Breton-Martin charges the stage like a warrior, sword in hand, a harsh, angry war cry on his lips. Irritation flickers across my spine. How different would this portrayal be if they'd only come to know him?

"Your daddy is… was… a very great man, Akara," I say quietly. "They may not know him well, but a lot of people are alive today because of his sacrifice. He gave everything for his people." Akara pauses, lost in thought, before nodding.

"Oh. Okay, then," she chirps brightly. "Well, can we go buy sweetrolls, first, mama? Please?"

A breath escapes my lip, one part relief, one part sadness. What I would give to have such simplicity once more.

"Afterwards. When we come back to watch the stage. But we'll go visit Mistress Tandilwe first, alright, Akara?"

The little girl grumbles in agreement. I turn, my gaze searching the crowd for Baurus. A sea of faces gazes back, their expressions painted by excitement, awe and terror. Their attention is as rapt as my daughter's.

 _Where did he go,_ I frown, scanning the audience. My eyes catch on the haggard faces and lingering injuries of a few familiar members of the crowd, and my chest aches. _You'd think they would want to forget the last five years after all they lost,_ I muse sadly. Yet, they too gasp and hiss, eyes wide and wondrous as the sharp, angry voices ring out from the stage. Musicians beat rhythmic tabors and a chaotic dance of blood is enacted upon the stage: Martin's last battle, painted by the twist of robes and the echo of wooden swords clattering across the square.

"Pelenix—" Fortis hisses, slipping ahead into the crowd. I nod slowly, pulling my cowl close.

And then there is a triumphant cheer from around me, and my gut sinks. I brace myself, suddenly eager to leave, eager for the cool, quiet confines of the Temple of the One. Eager for the solitude of my grief. For I know this tale and what will come next on the stage all too well. The loss is carved deep within me.

"O Mehrunes Dagon, you foul beast, you wicked wight," Breton-Martin's voice calls out, "to netherworlds be vanquished, to Obl'vion's night! By the might of the Nine, may your gates be broken—" Martin's speech is shattered by a harsh cry, his voice trailing off abruptly. The crowd gasps, a hushed silence echoing through the square, and my head snaps back to the stage.

A burst of ice freezes my spine.

Hero-Cat stands at its center, his fanciful wooden sword running through the Emperor, coloured red ribbons emerging from Breton-Martin's costume. The actor stumbles to the floor of the stage, caught in the dramatic throes of death.

"By the blotting out of sinful bastardly blood, I cleanse us of accursed Oblivion above…" The Khajiit calls out, arms outstretched to the audience. "May the off'ring ring true for ye Nine Divines. Akatosh, come banish the Daedra maligned."

"No…" I breathe, eyes wide as a crudely costumed Akatosh gusts onto the stage. A darkening of confusion and a tint of anger shadow my brow, and some beast's claws scrabble at my chest. My eyes lock, transfixed by the scene. Martin, run through by the Hero-Cat. Dagon's expression of glee. Red ribbons bursting from the Emperor's white costume. Tightness forms at my throat, and I close my eyes, swaying slightly. The crowd seems to drift, miles away and muted.

 _No. No, this isn't right. This isn't what happened._ "This is wrong," I whisper. My voice is a muffled croak. "They've got it so wrong."

Suddenly I feel a firm hand at my elbow.

"Wha—?" My eyes snap open, panic biting at my senses.

"Come on, Pelenix," Baurus mutters quietly, "It's just a play. They don't know what happened. It's just a play. Let's go."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hello, hello! Time is a fickle beast. I may be slow to update, but here's the funny news: I have at least the next eleven chapters fully planned for this in vivid detail (which, if my math and my current word count pattern are correct, means approximately 40,000 words that are already planned and living in my head demanding to be free). And that's both exciting and really fun. The struggle just lies in finding the time between the numerous projects I'm working on (here and elsewhere) to take the ideas from notes to an actual, comprehensible story... If only sleep were optional.

So if you're still reading, THANK YOU for your patience. And if you're new, welcome aboard!

I hope you enjoyed the chapter; I promise it's to set up future events, not just to fill the page. We're on the brink of the beginning of the excitement here. I can taste it. I also have so much of it written in spurts and blips on my phone, my computer, in sketchbooks and scraps of random paper that I've probably lost a few ideas between starting and finishing this note. But the best ones are safe and sound.

Wherever you are in this beautiful big world: good afternoon, good evening, good night and good morning. Stay tuned.

 **-Mintermist**


	11. Chapter Three: First Dark - Part II

CHAPTER THREE – FIRST DARK – PART II

* * *

 _15 First Seed 4E 5, 11:04PM  
_ _Temple District, Septim Eve Festival_

"She's waiting for you inside," Levin says. The young Bladesman's voice is sombre as a cleric as he descends from the temple steps, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Starlight softens his face with pale blue light, sparkling from above like silent guardians. _It all looks so different from that night,_ I think. The knight averts my gaze, his eyes focused on his feet. He clears his throat. "You won't have much time, lady knight, but Tandilwe is ready for you. Naenna will take you in." He nods his heads towards the imposing temple doors, where a petite Altmer novice in pale blue robes hovers timidly. The fabric of the young girl's cowl hangs silkily over her bare head, soft as whispering falls.

I bob my head in greeting.

"Thank you," I say. The words catch in my throat. Levin nods, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"We'll wait out here," he says gruffly, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. I take a steadying breath, my spine straightening as my eyes take it all in for the first time in half a decade: the Temple of the One. Wiry construction scaffolds are erected around the exterior, climbing the chapel walls like vines. They are the only remaining hint of Dagon's destruction. New stone melds with old, ancient history meeting the new day. Marvellous marble columns stretch high overhead, elegant new giants carved with all manner of runes that glow in the moonlight. The domed roof, once shattered by Dagon's assault, is nearly reconstructed, arcing closer to the heavens in order to house the colossal dragon within.

The avatar of Akatosh, petrified into stone.

Memory passes before my mind's eye: an explosion of light consuming Martin and the Amulet of Kings in the central colonnade as Dagon burst into the chapel. The image morphs with blinding fire –melting, burning, aching—replacing the form of Martin with the fiery glory of Akatosh. For a moment, I can still feel the tremble of the earth, the taste of dust on my tongue as the temple collapsed, the scent of cinders in the air as the behemoths raged…

"Pelenix, are you alright?" Baurus asks quietly. "You look pale. Back in the Green, there—"

The quiet of the Temple District draws me back. There is no more war. No more battle. No more Daedra. There is only the cool brush of the night breeze carrying the slightest scent of spring wildflowers, and the hand of a five year old child clasped in my own.

"I- yes. I'm fine," I reply, balling my hands into fists. "It's just been over five years since I was last here, Baurus. And when I lost Ma—when _we_ lost the Emperor… Well, it just feels strange, wrong even, to be here without him. It feels like I failed him."

Baurus nods gently. His soft eyes are grave.

"Martin meant a great deal to us all, and we all lost something that night, Kayta. He would have been a great Emperor. But he chose to give us, his people, the one thing he had: life. Don't discount that gift. Martin would be… no, he _is_ proud of the both of you, I'm sure, wherever he is."

I smile tightly, glancing down at Akara.

"I know…" I reply.

"We'll give you two some time," Baurus adds gently. "You were right… it's important that she knows, even if she doesn't understand at first." He smiles gently, before crouching down to Akara's level. "Hi, sweetie. Would you do something for me when you go in there?" He asks her. Akara nods shyly, her little face both serious and sweet. "Thank you so much, little lady," Baurus says, ruffling her hair. "Now, it's a very important job. Not even your mama can do it for me, and she's the best hero in the kingdom. See, I need you to bring these inside and put them on the altar for me. It's very important." Baurus pulls a small bundle of wildflowers from his satchel—lavender and lady's smock, alkanet and primrose, I notice.

Akara fidgets beside me, unsure, her hand warm in my own.

"What is it, pet?" I ask, squeezing her hand reassuringly. The little girl bites her lip, her eyes downcast.

"N-nothing," she replies, taking the small bouquet from Baurus. "I'll bring them in, Uncle Baurus," she says brightly.

"That's a good girl," Baurus says, tapping her lightly on the nose. "There might even be sweetrolls waiting for a hero like you after!"

My daughter's eyes light up.

"Promise?" She exclaims.

"Absolutely, only don't tell your mama," Baurus whispers conspiratorially. "I once saw her scarf down fifteen of them in a row—"

"Fifteen?" Akara's eyes widen.

"It might have even been twenty," he grins.

"Baurus!" I exclaim with a laugh.

"And that was after she ate two whole cheese wheels, a plate of chicken, and I suspect she ate all of my apples rations!" He shrugs. "It takes a lot of food to be a hero like your mama, apparently."

I roll my eyes.

"Coming from you. I only had three, and if I remember, it was your horse that ate your apples."

"It's your word against mine, Pelenix. But, go on, now, little lass," Baurus says, ruffling Akara's hair once more. "Your mama is waiting and it's time to pay your respects for Martin's Eve."

Akara nods, glancing up at me, and we cross the avenue towards the entryway of the Temple. The novice, Naenna, stands at the doorway, her arms crossed and an impassable expression on her face as we approach.

"Welcome, Champion," she says, bowing her head. Her voice is deeper than I would have expected for such a slender frame. It wavers ever so slightly. "It is an honour to meet you."

"Call me Kayta," I say. "And the pleasure is mine. Thank you, for… all of this, really. I know this is unusual on such a busy evening."

"Yes, Champion, of course," the novice says breezily. She eyes Akara with an expression akin to curiosity. "Priestess Tandilwe is expecting you in the hall, of course. The Temple is much changed since your… prior escapades, I would imagine. If you would follow me, please." She turns with a swish of her cerulean robe, pressing her small form against the creaking door. It swings open, slowly, and the novice disappears into the dim opening.

I level my chin, straightening my spine.

"Come along, Akara," I say, brushing after her.

"Mama?" Akara tugs on my sleeve as we step into the candlelit antechamber. The air is rife with a holy silence, perfumed with incense and cleanliness. For the first time in an age, a mantle of peace settles over my shoulders. I smooth a hand over my daughter's hair.

"Yes, little love?"

"Does my papa…does my papa live here?" Akara's voice is soft and fragile, a pure note of awestruck innocence echoing through the nave of the Temple. A lump forms in my throat. "Mama?" She asks again,

"I…" I close my mouth, delicate uncertainty closing my throat. A crush of words stumbles upon my lips, unable to pass my tongue. "Akara, your father…"

"Your father saved the kingdom, little dove," a voice says warmly. Tandilwe. The Altmer stands just before the entryway to the inner Sanctuary, her pale blonde hair swept back across her shoulders like a silvery stream. She is clad in a gown of emerald and sapphire, utterly ageless, and sunlight radiates from her tone. Her footsteps scarcely echo as she enters the chamber. "He gave his life so we all might live, as he went on to unite with the mysteries of Aetherius above. But his spirit lives on in the hearts of those who love and remember him, and those whom he loves still." She smiles. "Welcome to the Temple of the One. I have waited a long while to meet you, daughter of Akatosh."

Akara hesitates, eyes wide, and presses back against my robe.

"It's alright, Akara," I say, nudging the little girl forward. "Say hello. Mistress Tandilwe is a dear friend. She was there when you were born."

"H-hello," my daughter says, stepping forward. She eyes the High Elf shyly, her hands fidgeting with Baurus' bouquet.

"Hello, Akara. It is a pleasure to welcome you to the Temple," the priestess replies graciously. I turn to the Altmer and embrace her, catching the scent of incense and Frost Mirriam.

"My old friend, it's wonderful to see you after all of these years. You haven't changed a bit," I say.

"But I gather you have, and only for the greater," the priestess replies, clasping me by the shoulders. One cool hand cups my face. "It warms my heart to see your legacy thrive, Kayta, and to see you in such good health. He would be proud," she adds with a whisper.

"Oh…Thank you," I reply, emotion colouring my cheeks. I slip off my hood, running a hand through my hair sheepishly. "Thank you for making the time for us. I know it must be difficult on a night such as this."

"No more than usual," Tandilwe says with a tinkling laugh. "Come. You will have journeyed far, and there is no place better than a Temple to revive one's soul. Martin's Eve, in particular, is a night of great peace."

I nod, taking in the room. The antechamber is a wide stone space bathed in candlelight. Three archways break off, one to the main sanctuary and two to unknown locales.

"Baurus… Baurus said I have to bring these to the altar," Akara pipes up suddenly, hesitantly holding out the knight's bouquet. The Altmer turns, one brow raised. A playful smile dances on her lips.

"Did he, now? Baurus is a friend of yours, I take it?" She asks. Akara nods profusely, tresses bouncing and her eyes serious. Tandilwe leans over, her hands on her knees as she looks directly in my daughter's eyes. "Well, child, we must be sure to deliver them, then. It is the perfect evening for such an offering." Akara's face softens, a smile tugging at her cheeks. The Priestess offers her a hand, straightening. "Naenna, child," she calls. "Would you be so good as to fetch the offering flask and the candles? And bring the ceremonial goblets as well, if you would."

The novice nods, glancing between the three of us before she swishes through a side archway.

"She's such a dear creature," Tandilwe says, shaking her head with a sad smile as the novice leaves. "She was orphaned by the Oblivion crisis, you know, poor thing. When Naenna came to us, she was nothing but a bundle of terror and hate. But look at her now… just another example of the goodness of the God of Time." Tandilwe sighs, smoothing her skirts. "But you're not here to hear me preach, I imagine. Come, now. Let me bring you to the inner sanctuary."

We turn, passing through a simple stone archway. A wave of some heavy emotion washes over me; grief, twinged with both longing and relief. At the center of the temple, Akatosh's petrified avatar rears exactly as it did five years past. Wings unfurled, it is as wild and regal as ever, surrounded by the remains of broken columns. The dragon's mouth is open in a silent beastly roar; its head arched back, victorious over the long-vanquished Daedric Prince. _The last act of the Septim Emperor_ , I muse, _to reign over hearts both never and always_.

The distance between the entryway and the stone dragon seems to stretch for an age, the echo of footfalls reverberating through the lofty chapel. I stop to bask in the tranquility. Candles flicker about the room, filling it with an otherworldly glow. The stillness runs to the waters of one's spirit.

I close my eyes a moment, remembering the feel of Martin's hand letting go of my own as we last stood here, his last goodbye before jumping into the fray.

Now, there is a gentle hand at my shoulder. Soft and soothing.

"I know this must be… difficult for you, Kayta," Tandilwe says kindly. "It is understandable. I may not have known him, but I do know: love lost is a terrible affliction beyond the power of even the greatest of healers." Her smile is tight, filled with its own pain. "Only Akatosh, the God of Time, can aid any of us with it. Just know you are strong enough to prevail."

I bob my head, giving her a watery smile.

"Thank you," I say. The elf squeezes my shoulder.

"I'll give you two a moment with him before we go over the rite." She backs out of the room soundlessly.

I cross the threshold, staring up at the great form of the dragon. It towers over the temple, a monumental guardian so lifelike that no sculpture could have captured a closer likeness.

"Mama?" Akara hangs back, uncertainty in her tone. Her gaze is locked on the rearing beast. I smile, holding out my hand.

"It's alright, Akara. It won't bite. He's been turned to stone by the gods for his bravery. Come. Sit by me and I'll tell you a tale."

Akara creeps closer, drawing up beside me.

And so I tell her the tale of the last of the Septims. The story of a son who knew neither father nor mother, a farm boy raised on the edge of ignorance and bliss. I tell her of his redemption by the hand the Nine, and how he saved many lives during the war before. I tell her of his gentleness and wisdom, his calm and courage, how he faced the blight of Oblivion and outwitted the Dawn. I tell her of battles and Daedra, faced with the courage of Kings. I tell her of sacrifice and loyalty down to the end. I tell her of Akatosh's appearance in the temple where we stand.

I tell her the tale of her father, Martin Septim.

Akara is quiet a moment, fiddling with the edge of her gown. Her eyes are full of awe, candlelight throwing golden shadows across her face.

"This is why we celebrate Martin's Eve, love. Your daddy was a great man- a good man who gave his life for Tamriel. One day, I imagine you'll understand more." I kiss the top of her head. "But for now, just know that your father is watching out for you from beyond the realms of men, and that he and I adore you more than life." The words catch in my throat. Akara leans in for a hug, and I wrap my arms around her minute form, drawing her close. "I love you, little one," I murmur into her hair.

"I love you most, mama," she answers, kissing my cheek. We sit there a moment, arms wrapped about one another at the feet of Akatosh. There is something perfect, something divine about the moment. I can almost imagine Martin standing there with us. Ever gentle.

"Why don't you go lay out Baurus' flowers for your father?" I whisper at last. "You can say a few words for him if you'd like." Akara nods, petting my cheek, and pulls away. My eyes follow her as she approaches the form of Akatosh with a new kind of reverence. The flowers are clutched in her hand, mostly crushed but filled with a more precious kind of beauty.

I wrap my arms around my torso, looking to the ceiling of the temple. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

"Hello Martin," I whisper into the air, settling down before the giant statue. "It's me." My arms tighten as I picture the man behind the behemoth, picturing the curve of his jaw and the bridge of his nose. I can almost trace the crease that furrowed between his brows when he read, or hear the lilt of his voice as he spoke. I shake my head against a surge of sadness and anger. "No matter how much time passes, this never gets any easier, you know. It just gets buried deeper. Because gods know, I wish that you could be here…I wish you could see her." Tears prick at my eyes, but I press on. "You would laugh if you saw how much she's like you… so curious and gentle, so stubborn when she wants to be." Tears threaten my voice, and I blink them back. "She asks about you so much that I know she wishes you were here too. So, I hope… I hope that wherever you are… you're happy and at rest. I hope you can see her and that you love her like I do." I bite my lip. "And I'm sorry that I took this long, love." Pain rakes at my chest, my heart, and I let it pass through me, feeling it carve dark hollows within my chest. The space between my ribs and my lungs seems to crack with a warhammer's swing. My fist presses against my lips, fighting back the torrent.

And then the hollowness lifts, like a candle in the dark. The silence is familiar, comforting, even, and I can picture him nearby. I hold each memory as it passes through my mind; the sound of Martin's laugh warming the room; the way his hands held both book and blade; how his rough fingers cradled my face. The intensity of his gaze in that final moment.

The memories are agony.

The memories are ecstasy.

Each one passes through me, sweet and searing.

I open my eyes to see Akara, perched adoringly at my feet, watching my face. She smiles, a quiet, bittersweet expression, before she wordlessly crawls onto my lap. I cradle her close, my hands caressing her hair.

"I know, little one," I murmur. "I know." Her small face burrows into the crook of my neck, and I stand, holding her close.

Footsteps approach the inner sanctum, and Naenna knocks gently on the archway.

"Champion? Would you do us the honour of joining us for the ritual?" She calls. "We would give thanks to Akatosh and the gods for Martin's sacrifice before the night is through."

I nod, brushing away any trace of tears.

"Of course," I say, hoisting Akara in my arms. The little girl rests her head on my shoulder. "By all means."

The young Altmer enters the room, arranging the altar with two goblets and a bottle of wine. She pours it into each, a splash of rich red, and beckons me closer.

"It's a tradition," she explains. "Tandilwe gives thanks, and two drink before the gods on behalf of the Emperor. Perhaps you could do the honours?"

Tandilwe sweeps into the sanctum, her face tender as her gaze meets mine.

"I would be honoured," I reply. I kiss Akara on the cheek and set her down. "We're almost done, and then away to bed, little one," I say softly. She yawns in response.

I turn to the altar. The priestess takes a goblet and passes me the other.

"For Martin," she murmurs. I nod, accepting it, before she raises her hands to the heavens. Her palms are open and her eyes turned up.

"We are gathered together this Martin's Eve to honour those who fell before. Lord Akatosh, we give thanks for thy might and for guarding them as they lived." The words flow from the priestess's lips in a kind of meticulous rote. I repeat them as she pauses, and she nods in encouragement. "We give thanks for the guidance of the Nine, and for the selflessness of our fallen Emperor, Martin Septim. On this sacred night as we pay our respects to those lost in the days of the Oblivion crisis, most of all we give thanks for our blessed departed Martin. For Cyrodiil's deliverance, we give thanks. We ask that you would continue to defend us through both strife and peace. May the blessings of the Nine be upon us all, and may Martin rest in the realm of the gods. So may it be."

The Altmer raises her goblet, looking us each in the eye. "The blessing of the Nine be upon you," she repeats, before she takes a sip.

"And upon you as well," I reply with the ritual words, raising my own goblet. I raise it to my lips, eager for the taste of summer vineyards hailing from Skingrad.

But then, the priestess pauses, a hand at her chest. She coughs as though clearing her throat. The sound scrapes, dry and rough, and she forces a smile.

"E-excuse m—" She chokes. She inhales deeply and takes a long sip of wine. She clears her throat again. Gravel replies, the sound deepening, scratching at her chest like smoke and ash. Her eyes grow wide, water brimming at her lids, streaming across her cheeks as her shoulders begin to shake.

"Tandilwe?" I say slowly, setting down my own goblet, untouched. The silver thuds dully against the altar top, and my eyes narrow.

Each breath the elf takes is harrowed and drawn, drier than the last. She puts a hand to her throat. The coughing doubles, a harsh grinding of grit and iron, and suddenly the woman is gasping for breath.

The priestess' chalice falls to the floor, a clattering of silver and stone, spilling wine across the white marble flagstones like blood. Naenna screams, as Tandilwe doubles over. The elf leans against the altar, her hands scrabbling at her throat, her collar, her chest. Her nails leave small lines of blood in their wake. She heaves a wracking, wheezing breath. Shades of colour bloom across her face in bursts of horror. Her flesh grows pink, tinged with darkened veins. Pink deepens to scarlet, and scarlet blurs into violet.

"Tandilwe!" I exclaim, willing my body to move, eyes wide. Adrenaline thrums in my throat, horror pounding against my heart as I rush forwards.

The priestess falls to the floor, retching. An expulsion of wine and blood bursts from her lips. It pools across the stone, followed by a putrid mixture of bile and thick, white foam. It froths over her chin, dripping over her cheeks, staining the collar of her gown. The elf's body begins to convulse, each breath shaking her chest, growing ever more ragged, ever more desperate, ever more violent as she rasps for air. Her limbs twitch, contorting in strange angles. Her hands grow limp, grasping at nothing. A trickle of scarlet seeps from her nose, pooling across the floor, and her cheeks turn white like curdled milk. Something sinks in my gut, hopeless and dark.

I have seen this before.

I take a steadying breath, willing the room to stop spinning, and lift the priestess's head off of the floor. Naenna bends down, reaching for the priestess's goblet.

"Don't touch the wine," I say, deathly quiet as I scrabble for my voice. "Don't touch anything!" My voice rises, echoing across the hall.

The Chapel grows still.

Cold.

Quiet.

"By the Nine!" Naenna gasps. Horror splays across her face. Her fingers lace over her mouth. "What have you done? _What_ have you _done_?" Akara stands rooted silently, her face pale.

"Mama?"

"Stay, there, Akara. Cover your eyes," I call. My hands stroke the elf's face. She chokes, froth continuing to bubble from her lips. A cry breaks from my throat. "No, no, no. Hold on, Tandilwe, hold on," I breathe, cradling the woman's head. The sparkle begins to dim from her eyes, bloodshot and raw. I reach deep within me, focusing on the hum that hovers just below the surface, grasping for the golden surge of power. The Altmer shakes violently in my arms, panting, wheezing, gasping. My hands are slick with her blood.

But before I can draw forth the healing light, suddenly she goes still.

Pale eyes stare ahead blankly, void of warmth and light.

"No…" I breathe.

"What is it? What did you do?" Naenna asks, backing away in horror. "What did you _do?_ "

I blink, my eyes locked on the listless face. Numbness creeps over my spine.

"Mama? Mama is she—?"

I nod mutely, running a bloodied hand over my brow.

Tandilwe is dead.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** "She was the first of us to fall..." I was going to wait a day or so to post this, but I really couldn't resist. I'm a bit of an all or nothing type at times. I hope you enjoyed reading- or hey even if you hated reading, I hope you felt something. I for one enjoyed the late night writing; it brought me back to the crazy late-night writing I once used to do. (Also, sidenote, if anything doesn't make sense, sleep deprivation is likely a contributing factor).

With that, I will go cackle off into the night. I would love to hear from you if you have a thought, comment, prediction, idea, critique, or reaction. Let me know below. Happy Thursday!

 **-Mintermist**


	12. Chapter Three: First Dark - Part III

**CHAPTER THREE – FIRST DARK** **–** **PART III**

* * *

 _16 First Seed 4E 5, 1:19AM  
_ _The Feed Bag, Room 2_

"We need to leave." The words are a low hiss, dire as ragwort on my tongue. The door to Fortis' room latches behind me with a definitive click, and I lean back against its timber frame. The wood is both rough and solid. Secure. Splinters poke through the fabric of my robe, and I close my eyes against the shards that catch along my spine. My lungs heave a slow breath, exhaling hues of shock.

Gods, I can still picture it; the way that her eyes rolled back in her head, horribly white and unseeing as venomous froth pooled from her lips. My hands burn with the ghost of her torso, both too hot and too cold to be living. The memory convulses with a pang in my arms, and I curl my hands into fists.

Flecks of dried blood linger on my skin.

"Just… just slow down, Pelenix," Fortis sighs. Weariness weights his voice, a cavernous sound that all but swallows his usual lightness. The night has carved sharp, shadowed lines around the Blade's eyes and there is a deadly set to his mouth—something hollow and foreboding. "We still don't know for sure. By Mephala, for all we know, it could have been an accid–"

"This was no accident, Fortis," I growl. My arms cross over my chest, grasping for a measure of composure. Tattered thoughts and emotions scatter, a haphazard mosaic of grief and fury. I shake my head, swallowing the ache, and take a slow breath. Cold stoicism hardens over my features, carved and tempered as weathered earth.

Uncertainty furrows the Imperial's tanned brow.

"How can you be sure?" He asks.

I stride across the hotel room to peer through the darkened window. Shadows pass in the street below, shapeless forms and erratic movements. I press my brow against the cool pane. A chill draught creeps through like an icy wraith, and I can't help but shudder. My breath fogs the glass.

"Trust me. There are only a handful of poisons that produce an effect that deadly," I say, my voice low and twinged with bitterness. "They're never used lightly." I drag a hand through my hair, clawing at a growing sense of helplessness, before I snap the shutters closed, turning the latch. I turn back to Fortis. His eyes mirror my own, dark as Oblivion gates. I take a deep breath. "No. No, it was no accident. What happened to Tandi— what…what happened _tonight_ … it was meant for me." The words sear my throat, but my gaze levels with the Blade, raw and clear. "Someone _knew_ I would be there. The question is how, and whether it was a message… or a missed target."

The lines on Fortis's face deepen, and he drags a palm roughly over his eyes. Stone hangs at his shoulders.

"I—Listen, Kayta… " He says slowly. "The Imperial City is a big place, full of greed and ambition and backstabbing and—and all sorts of terrible characters. I mean, sure, it might've been poison, but you can't be certain that it was targeted at you. Maybe Tandilwe had enemies? People who wanted to replace her? For all we know, it was just a coincidence that you happened to witness? Wrong place, wrong time or some horseshit like that."

A bark of hollow laughter escapes my lips, a mirthless sound.

"I almost wish that were possible. But you don't understand," I murmur, closing my eyes. Wariness prickles across my skin as a series of images pass before my closed lids, as fresh and vivid as an hour past. The scent of the room –of timber and sage— blurs with the memory of incense and bile. I can picture Naenna's robed figure stumbling backwards, her footsteps echoing through the Nave as she races for the temple door, fear and murder on her lips. Tandilwe's body is a slack weight in my arms, faintly warm and motionless. Her eyes stare ahead blindly at the figure of Akatosh with everlasting devotion. I bite my lip, and with clumsy hands I set the priestess's eyes into eternal slumber; my fingers leave smears of scarlet over her lids, and I hastily wipe my hands on the folds of my robe. Something cold and pervasive tightens in my chest, sharp as a blade yet with the force of a mace as I settle the elf's limp form onto the flagstone.

Death tints her cheeks. A warm rivulet slips over my own cheek to splatter her cooling skin, and I wipe roughly at my eyes, taking a heavy breath.

"Be at peace, old friend," I murmur. My voice is drawn and hoarse.

There is no reply.

Silence creeps over my senses, numb, muffling life and feeling and sight and taste and—

And then there is a sound.

"M-mama?" Akara's voice trembles. Caught between tears and terror, it echoes through the Temple with the force of both a gale and a wisp. Her usually impish face is pale in the flickering candlelight, a withdrawn crease on her brow. "Mam-mama, I'm scared."

Something shifts in my chest, some blend of tenderness and apprehension. The room seems to slow, every detail sharpened. My gaze flickers between the elf's still corpse and my daughter. Tandilwe's discarded goblet glints in the corner of my vision, pooling lethal wine like blood. _Of all the nights for such horror_ … I take a slow breath as something lurches at my core, scrabbling across my chest, gaining purchase on my lungs. Realization clicks with grim certainty and iron plating seems to bind my ribs, too snug and twined with panic.

It won't be long now.

It won't be long before the City Guard arrives.

It won't be long before questions arise.

Within the span of two strides, I pull my daughter close. Her tiny form shakes, and I crouch down to her level, cupping her face in my hands.

"Look away, little one. Look away," I say softly. Her eyes are glossy with fear and I smooth her brown tresses. "Akara… Look at me, look at mama. It will be alright, I promise. But we have to leave. Now."

"B-but what about T-Tandi—" She stammers.

My brow furrows, and I shake my head gently.

"I know, little love, I know. But there's nothing we can do for her. We need to be brave now." _We need to keep you safe_ , I add silently.

I take her small hand in my own, shepherding her away from the scene. Our footsteps echo, ominous as drums and death against the cold flagstone. Adrenaline and dread trail in our wake, silently observed by the flicker of candlelight. An aching web of ghosts and regret knots in my gut; what once felt holy now feels defiled, as though draugr haunt the halls and wraith peer from shadowed alcoves.

Ahead, there is a scraping creak, a slow sound full of restraint and midnight. A blast of ice seems to jolt through me, sharp as frost's blade, as the hewn door ahead of us slowly whinges against the flagstone, casting a narrow band of moonlight across the floor. Instinctively, I push Akara behind me, my body angled in front of hers. Determination grits my teeth as I claw below the surface of Nirn for the destructive crackle of flames and power. It catches on my will, slowly tugging at the power before a wave of heat and brimstone scorches through my body with the familiar burst of scarlet. Eddies of magicka flow through my limbs, fuelled by fury and fear, and sparks hiss as licks of ethereal fire spark from my fingers, charred with will and aggression.

I will not fail again.

A shadow falls over the moonlight, and I draw back my palm, the heat of the flames increasing as I steady my aim. The fireball grows with a hiss.

"Pelenix?" A voice asks tentatively, edged with urgency. "Are you in there?"

Baurus. Merely Baurus.

A heavy breath escapes my lips and the flames at my fingertips rescind with the hiss of embers and smoke. The fire leaves faint red welts across my palm, which fade as quickly as they appeared.

"I'm here," I reply shakily. "We're here." Smoke lingers on my tongue, cloying and full of ash.

The Blade's face appears in the doorway. His brow is drawn, but his gaze remains quick and bright amidst the shadows.

"By the Nine. What happened, Kayta?" He asks. "That novice ran out babbling something about murd—"

"Tandilwe is… gone," I say bleakly, casting a pointed glance down at Akara. Her hands cling to the folds of my robe. Baurus's eyes widen, his jaw tightening. I shake my head curtly. "Listen, we don't have time to explain. Not here. We need to go. Now. Before the watch can ask questions."

"Gone? I— of course," Baurus nods sharply, casting a glance back to the Temple Square. He signals wordlessly to Fortis. "I sent Levin on ahead once you went in… I was worried there would be trouble in the square or at the Inn. But by the gods, I never could have imagined anything like this. Thank Talos you two are safe." He shakes his head, some hollow expression carving his gaze. "Just… come on. Let's get you out of sight."

The Blade ushers us into the night. The air is cool, edged with a whisper of winter like cold steel beneath the evening star. I hastily scoop Akara into my arms, and the little girl's grip tightens around my neck. She smells of nectar and horses, honey and warmth. But there is something more, a creeping coldness that lurks beneath. I pull her close.

"It will be alright, Akara," I whisper. She nods silently against my neck. I can feel her tiny heartbeat against my own.

"Pelenix," Baurus says, his voice low, "We should take another route back. If there is even a slight chance that we're still being tailed, I would rather throw off the scent."

I nod.

"Of course."

Baurus signals once more to Fortis, and the Blade takes off, leading a winding path through the district. The cobbles are rough and uneven beneath our feet as we twist and turn, and the chill night air is tinged with lady's smock and morning glory. A throng of Martinmas festivalgoers stagger past, raucous and singing. Their faces are blurred with drunken cheer as they return to the safety of their beds. My eyes dart around the square as we elbow through the growing crowd. Baurus keeps close, one hand on the hilt of his blade, his eyes sharp. Fortis weaves ahead of us, equally alert.

I take a steadying breath. I am no stranger to Death. But in my arms, Akara tenses, her arms tightening around my neck as some deep sense of foreboding carves through my spine, prickling across the back of my skull. I cast a glance over my shoulder to the Temple of the One, towering over the crowd like a mournful observer.

And then I see him.

Perched nimbly in the shadows of the Temple scaffolding, I catch a glimpse of golden rings on pointed ears. Lips curl gleefully, revealing bright teeth. The Bosmer leans casually against the construction frame, agilely dropping from one platform to the next. His eyes seem to lock with mine overtop of the crowd. Watching. Knowing. Gleeful. Deadly. And suddenly, he tenses. The wood elf steps back into the shadows, before he takes a running leap, spring-like, his body arcing from the scaffold and through the air. My eyes widen, following his twisting descent with a mixture of chilled horror and wonder. But with a burst of indigo and scarlet, he vanishes.

Mid air.

Dread and thunder sounds in my ears, a shuddering echo, as—

"Pelenix! What do you mean? _What_ don't I understand?" Fortis's voice lurches me back into the cramped hotel room. Memory instantly fades before my eyes. The solid warmth of rugged furniture and half-timber walls replaces the blur of faces and temple columns. The chill of the air is forgotten, and the crowds have ceased to be. Yet I can still picture the angular face leering from the scaffolding overhead, golden hoops glinting in his ears and that knowing smile dancing over his lips.

"He was there, Fortis," I breathe, rubbing a hand over my eyes. "It was that damn elf from the Waterfront, the one that was shadowing me this morning. As soon as we left the Temple, he was there in the scaffolding. Watching. It was like he knew we would be there… and Mephala knows what he heard."

"What? What are you talking about?" The Blade exclaims.

"I'm saying we need to leave," I say flatly. "There will be questions about Tandilwe's death soon enough, questions that I can't afford to answer for Akara's sake. And with that elf still lurking, I need to make sure that my daughter is safe. So we're leaving. No one else will die on my behalf."

"What about the dagger?" A voice says from behind me. I start as Baurus slips into the room. He leans against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His mouth is twisted into a thin line and he shakes his head. "If there's even a chance of some kind of Mythic Dawn remnant threat, you can _not_ forget about that, Kayta. That isn't what we fought for during the Oblivion Crisis, and that is not the Champion of Cyrodiil I know. Kayta Pelenix doesn't run in the face of danger."

"I am _not_ running," I counter acerbically. My hands curl into fists. "But I need to think of Akara first. This isn't like before, Baurus. I can't just run off chasing shadows for months on end at the slightest hint of danger. I have other responsibilities that come before the Empire now. Someone _died_ in front of my daughter—"

"Yes, they did. And it's pretty clear that plenty more will keep on dying unless you do something about it," the Redguard snaps.

I whirl on him. Nirn seems to shift around me, a buzz of fury and rippling energy. I can almost taste the crackle of flames below the surface.

"Unless _I_ do something about it? Me? This is my problem now?" I spit. "You didn't even want us to come, Baurus. So what do you want me to do now? Charge in and save the day? Solve the mystery, play the hero and relive the glory days?" The words are acrid on my tongue, but Baurus shakes his head.

"No. I want you to do what's right. I want you to do what you can, not retreat into the shadows like some frightened pup just because your friend was murdered." The Redguard's face is impassive. "I mean, just think about it. First there was the horror in Bruma, and now a murder in the Imperial City? It seems that both are linked to you, and we _know_ it's linked to that damn dagger. By the Nine, you have a lead and a responsibility to see this through."

"A responsibility? My only responsibility is to Akara, Baurus. My days as the 'Champion' are behind me. The Elder Council has survived without my aid these past five years; I trust they can manage their own murders."

Baurus snorts, a hollow sound.

"Come, now, Pelenix. I don't think you honestly believe that. You know as well as I do that Tamriel is hanging by a thread without an Emperor. The provinces are in chaos. Chancellor Ocato is scrambling for power. The Empire is precarious. I mean, they can't even focus enough to rebuild Kvatch beyond a rough brigand's den. So if the common folk are dying and if Daedric cults are responsible, people need a beacon. They need _hope_ to warm the darkest of nights.

"Trust me: there is no one else, no one better suited to handle this, Kayta. You _know_ how this kind of game goes. It doesn't end until you pick up your own sword and fight back." Baurus's mouth is set in a hard line. My brow creases as I match his gaze.

"It _began_ when I arrived, so it _ends_ if I leave. It ends if I refuse to play," I say coolly. Baurus grunts, a coarse sound of shifting earth and exasperation. He balls his hand into a fist.

"Gods, woman. Don't be daft and sacrifice lives in the name of your pride. This was calculated. It won't end if you wish it gone."

Frost crackles between the Blade and I. Ice and adamance flare, cast like spells over soured blood. The sconce light flickers, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

Fortis sighs, crossing his arms.

"This is if we assume that this cult theory is right. You both forget… we don't know that this was even linked to Dagon's cult," the Imperial interjects. "Yes, the elf was there. We don't know who he is; whether he means ill or well. The priestess's death could have merely been that: a priestess's death at the hand of an adversary. Political or otherwise." He scowls. "Don't let the horrors of the past make you see wraiths where there are none."

"This isn't about imagination, Fortis," Baurus counters. "Real cult or otherwise, we know that the brutality at Bruma was at the hand of someone claiming Dagon's sigil. After all that we endured and fought for, that should be enough to give us pause," Baurus says. He turns to me, his eyes gentle but fierce. "In my mind, there is no question. You need to act, Kayta. Think of what Martin would do."

A sudden burst of rage flickers, rippling across my muscles like flame. Sparks flash, unbidden, at my fingertips.

"How dare you," I growl. "On this of all nights—"

"Careful, Pelenix. Archmage or not, you don't want to burn the inn down." Fortis cautions. Baurus meets my gaze sombrely, his eyes grown black as death, suddenly full and terse with a wordless challenge.

"I do dare," he counters gruffly. "On this of all nights, we celebrate Martin's sacrifice. We celebrate his selflessness for the good of the realm," he says. "Think of what he did. Think of what he died for, and ask yourself what he would have you do for his people, Kayta. Think of _who_ he died for, and don't let that sacrifice be in vain by turning a blind eye to those who suffer."

The words sting, poignant as arrows whistling through a field of blood and speech. My mouth tightens, an edge sharp as cold steel, as each one lands against my flesh. Piquant and jagged. My nails dig into my palms as guilt wages war on my conscience.

"And what of Akara," I say sourly. "You would have me turn a blind eye to my daughter, to plan on _abandoning_ my only child while she sleeps in the next room? After she's had the fright of her life?"

"She strong—"

"She's five, Baurus. A child! Even as little as a month apart is like a year for one so young. How could you ask me to leave her, or to risk her safety beyond my care?" Something pangs in my gut, resolute and fierce.

Baurus's face shutters, masking something beneath. A hush falls like a mantle over the room, vehement folds of sparks and ice. Silence echoes like sound. For once, the Blade averts my gaze, and all I can sense is the thrum of adrenaline in my chest. I take a steadying breath, pushing away the buzzing of magicka that thrums in my ears.

"What of the Elder Council?" Fortis says at last. "Surely, given Martin's legacy and Akara's parentage, they could afford her some kind of protection? They needn't know it, of course, but by all intents and purposes, she _is_ a Septim and a prin—"

"No," I say coldly.

"I know, but just hear me—"

"No," I repeat. My voice is ice and stone.

Baurus sighs.

"Kayta is right, Fortis. Bringing Akara into the folds of Ocato's care will only stir questions. The child is safest beyond the quibbling of political intrigue. On the other hand, however, Jauffre and the Blades are sworn to your service, Pelenix, and in turn to Akara's. She would be safe and cared for at Cloud Ruler Temple. You have my word on it."

Guilt seethes, writhing over my limbs like a serpentine impulse. My sword arm twitches with the call of blood and justice, but my daughter's terrified face blooms before my mind's eye.

"How can I leave her?" I breathe, shaking my head. "I can't do that to her."

"This might be our only chance, Kayta. Akara will be safer if we handle this," Baurus sighs. "The realm will be safer if we handle this. And if we're lucky, it'll be nothing serious and over before you know it. Think of your daughter," His dark eyes level with mine, pleading, and truth twists in my side, a malevolent runic dagger. A scowl darkens my face.

"Fine," I snap, "But we'll do it my way. Once I get the information from Armand's man, I'll tip off the council. And if need be, I'll even follow the trail to Skingrad or Cheydinhal. But then we go home."

Baurus hesitates, sceptical, but then he nods, the lines around his eyes deepening.

"Deal, Pelenix." He sighs, running a hand over his brow, before he opens the door for me. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it's been a long night and I'd like to get some rest. You might want to do the same if you're going to totter off to get the news on the dagger at first light."

"The only one _tottering_ will be you when I knock you onto your ass for comments like that," I growl. "Champions don't _totter_."

"Really? It must be hard not to with such a big head. But whatever you say, m'lady." The Blade laughs, and in turn I can't stop the smile that cracks across my features. Fortis snorts.

"Both of you, get to sleep. I'll keep watch," the Imperial says wearily. "Levin and Arcturus have yet to return from their patrol. I'll fill them in."

I nod in thanks, brushing past them into the hall.

"Night, lads," I say. My feet, clad in laced leather, barely whisper across the floorboards as I slip down the hall. I turn the corner, fishing in the pocket of my robe for my key and fumbling for the door marked with the intricate _3._

"Oh! Goodnight, Mistress Pelenix. A blessed Martinmas to you," a voice says silkily. I start, as Delos the publican breezes past me. His red eyes glow eerily. I nod hesitantly before ducking into the shadows of my chamber and turning the lock behind me. It clicks reassuringly.

My eyes take a moment to adjust to the shadows, tracing over the form of the narrow beds and the derelict armoire. Akara's small form is curled beneath the bedclothes, snug and peaceful. Sleep has all but erased any trace of terror, her eyes fluttering in dreamy rhythms and her hair strewn about her impish face. Her tiny chest rises and falls peacefully, and at her bedside, Baurus has left her a small wooden plate of sweetrolls stacked overtop of a Children's Annuad. I can't help but smile as my arms wrap around my torso.

"You're safe, little love," I murmur to my daughter's sleeping form. I reach out a hand to gently smooth her hair, before stooping to place a light kiss on her brow. "No one will hurt you. I promise."

* * *

 **Author's Note : **Beware dangerous promises, Kayta. Cue the dramatic music.

Merry Christmas all! I hope the season and whatever your celebrations may be are bright and warm, and that you've been entertained thus far. I appreciate every reader, so thanks for following along and making it to this point. I'm having a lot of fun writing and planning. The next three parts of the following chapter are going to be fairly... intensive. About 1.5 of it is written, and all of it is planed. The romance is near (Teaser: there'll be a taste next chapter), and my favourite character is so close I'm dying to write for them. The adventure is building, the intrigue will thicken, and the murders are...murdering? Eh. Will Kayta's plans stay on track? Stay tuned to find out, follow to keep from missing out, and review or PM if you have any thoughts, critiques, questions, theories or feedback! Thanks a bunch and Happy Holidays!

Xox,

-Mintermist


	13. Chapter Four: Soundless - Part I

**CHAPTER FOUR – SOUNDLESS – PART ONE**

* * *

 _16 First Seed 4E 5  
4:48AM_

He comes to me near dawn.

The last slivers of the night sky feather through inky velvet, casting silvery-blue bands over shoulders that are both familiar and strangely foreign. He moves with an etheric grace, hushed and fluid, as though floating on the dying rays of moonlight, soundless beyond the faint brush of silk on skin. There is a muted kind of strength to his movements, a presence that draws me from the velvet embrace of oblivion with a soothing sigh.

I stir slowly, gently, sinking from swaddling warmth into the hush of wakefulness. Indigo swathes the room, deep and tranquil, and I follow the man's outline calmly through half closed lashes. His movements are slow and almost cautious, caught between wonder and something else. I watch him, curious, faintly aware of the rustle of cloudlike feathers beneath me. The light brush of silken brocade kisses my bare skin, snowy down as fine as spun bliss. This bed is large, and a thin veil covers my form –which lies nude, I note, and strangely unperturbed in the presence of the approaching figure. Curves of flesh peek from beneath the gossamer cloth, arcing hills and vales. I vaguely wonder where I am or if I am dreaming, but the notion is forgotten as I sit up, slowly, and the fabric shifts, revealing the curve of my breasts and swathes of smooth skin, bare of scars or marks. Light surprise crosses my brow, and my gaze drifts to the surrounding room, to strange walls of smooth marble, all but glowing amidst the starlight and crowned with wide arching windows. A sweeping terrace extends beyond their view, sprawled beneath constellations and nebulas. The sky is aflame with the meeting of worlds, caught in the glow of the approaching dawn yet clinging to dark velvet. Utterly otherworldly.

Its beauty awakens a hollow ache in my chest, a longing for some unknown thing denied. I tear my eyes from the sight, to find the man watching me with his own shadowed curiosity. Indigo cloaks his figure.

"It is what could have been." He speaks at last, gently, pausing beside my bed. His voice is as warm as the hearth and lilts with a curious burr. He runs a hand through a mane of shoulder length hair, and sits slowly on the edge of the mattress. The smooth white bedclothes rumble beneath his form, but he keeps his distance. I watch, unable to make out his features, but assure that he is less phantom than I presumed. His shoulders sink with a sigh. "Or so I imagine. Such things as 'could' and 'would' are difficult to discern, even now." While shadow conceals his face, his voice betrays the sound of a soft smile tugging at human lips. "But I imagine you already know that. You always were clever." I start, my brow furrowing, and he chuckles, low and steady. "Yes, you know me, but you have no reason to fear. You are safe here, Lady Knight, wherever our souls have been summoned." Something quickens in my pulse as he addresses me, a cord of memory winding about my ribs, my lungs, my heart.

My eyes widen.

I know this voice, this warmth carried within me like a shard of longing, growing ever fainter as its power grew stronger. It is the whisper of a life, short lived. A whisper of a life before.

"I— it can't be," I breathe, leaning forwards and grasping at his shoulder. It is solid and true beneath my hand, as strong as ever, warm with flesh beneath the fabric of his mantle. I pull him into the glow of the moon's light, searching, questioning.

He responds with the quiet brush of lips against my collarbone, with a sigh as coarse and rich as nature's deepest rush. The faint bristle of a shadow scrapes my skin, rough and tender, trailing along my throat, tracing my jaw until his lips find my own, questing, seeking, full of loss and adoration. I melt against his kiss, solid and warm, sure and familiar, immune to the impossibility of time, responding solely to the pressing of his tongue as it beckons my own in a sensuous dance, twinged with grief and need. His hands trace my flesh, softly gliding across my shoulders and over the curve of my spine as he draws me close overtop of the bedclothes. His mouth is urgent, and I take his strong jaw in my hands, twisting my body above his to wrap my legs on either side of his hips, leaning against the contours of his frame.

And then I pull my lips away, my eyes tracing the familiar planes of Martin's face, incredulous of each crag of suntanned skin. Of the twinkle in his eye. Of the twist of his lips. Of the arch of his brow as he looks up at me.

Martin Septim, in the flesh.

"How can this be?" I breathe. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he brays merrily, a deep laugh that sends shivers down my spine.

"In truth, my lady, I do not know. Nor do I care. Perhaps the gods saw fit to indulge us with one night of impossibility, or that the Daedric princes conspire to torment us hereafter with the knowledge of what cannot be. Or perhaps it is nothing at all, naught but a dream or a fancy, yours or mine, joined on either side of the veil. An illusion of what could have been if... well…"

He shrugs, a sad smile playing over his lips. "I for one will not question the Fates on such designs, and I hope this slumber never ceases, for all that it must." His fingers trail from my cheek to my neck, whispering kisses across flesh as they trail over my chest. Breath seizes in my throat, a pure pause of ice and fire. Eyes lock with my own, and his thumb slips down, brushing the bud crowning my left breast, squeezing, pressing, pulling a soft gasp from my lips. My eyelids flutter closed, savouring each sensation, rocking against it. His hands are warmer than memory, sure and sparking with desire as potent as any incantation. They question my skin, and I nod in agreement, slow at first and then adamant. Demanding. Questions fade on my tongue as my lips capture his, my vision lost in a crush of passion. The choice is made, incredulous, breathless, and my hands shift to unbind the robe from his shoulders, unleashing his bare torso against my own in a silken union. Soft and firm, full of heat and passion. Our lips dance an aching duet. Hands seek and find, caress and stroke, caught in the slow burn of flames below the surface as they catch in my hair, as they glide over my waist and past, and then back again. The planes of his form are aflame with heat against my skin, a soft moan escaping his kiss. His hips shift, a tentative question, and I grin against his mouth.

"Yes," I whisper, my lips shifting to his ear.

Balancing on one arm, I respond decisively, breath and adoration rending flesh against flesh, guiding our naked forms as one.

"Oh, Kayta."

I muffle the growl of his voice with my lips, tasting, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and spices. We move as one, a tangle of limbs and skin, hair and hands, brow to brow, seething against a cloud of bliss and desire. Time slows and increases, rhythmic and sure, a mantle woven of love and passion cloaking our single form. Martin shifts with a grunt; his hands are warm as a mage's spell, arcing, shifting his body above me in one fluid motion. I press into the down, his weight solid and firm above. His eyes catch my gaze, locking for what feels like an eternity. Breathless. Our fingers intertwine, and I close my eyes, a soft smile tugging at my lips.

"By all that is holy and true, whether we be living or dead, I love you, my lady," he growls, low in my ear. Pleasure arcs and builds, as vibrant and searing as the deepest magicka, a pointed rumbling of light and gasps and quaking earth and shifting bodies. Velvet blackness and light meet, Oblivion consuming us, richer than any paradise, a single moment of undiluted oneness. Of perfection.

It seems to last for an age of bliss. The sweet, pulsing meeting of souls and flesh and minds and hearts in one.

And after a time, it is done, without trumpets or glory, but with the tremor of skin and bone and breath and humanity.

Afterwards, we lie tangled, a merging of limbs and legs, caught in soundless bliss between the silken sheets. Martin's hands are buried in my hair, absently stroking and twining golden strands like jewels over his fingers. His palms are ever rough, and I trace lines over his bare skin, runic patterns and symbols.

"I never said hello," I murmur at last. Colour creeps over my cheeks as his twinkling gaze peers down at me. He laughs. His arms tighten.

"No, I don't suppose you did. Neither did I, in fact." He grins wickedly. "I guess it might be best that we never reigned with such foul breeding as that. The nobles would say that we're all feeling—"

"And fucking?" I grin. He smiles tightly, and presses a kiss on my brow.

"Something like that."

I snort.

"Well, I don't know if it would be so bad as that. We might have frightened the nobles, but as a former priest and a reformed convict… we'd have been quite the balanced pair, you know. I scarcely know what I was so worried about…before."

"No, I can't say I understood it then, either."

Martin laughs, but then he grows thoughtful. I bury my face against his chest, closing my eyes. His heartbeat is rhythmic, steady as it was in Nirn, but his spirit is drawn, distant as the sea. How long we lay there, I scarcely know.

"We haven't much time, do we?" I say, my lips pressed against his flesh. "I can't decide whether this is real or not, but I wager nothing will be different when we wake…"

His arms tighten around me, and he shakes his head.

"I don't know, but I suspect the same. I cannot return to the world of men, Kayta," he says softly. "So I'd gather that our time here, be it a dream or curse, grows short."

My brow furrows, stone souring my bliss.

"It's just so wrong. I wish things were different. I wish that you could see her," I say. Bitterness coats my tongue. "Our daughter, I mean. I wish you could see how much she is like you. How clever and gentle." Tears prick at my eyes, and my gaze slips to the melding of star and sky and sun at the window. Dawn rises over the blur of the horizon, casting a faint glow. Martin's lips brush my lids.

"As do I…I would that I could know her," he says. "I never knew my own the Emperor…my father, Kayta, just as Akara will never know me. But I watch over her from…beyond… for all the good it does. She's as beautiful as her mother and—"

Suddenly, Martin tenses, and the room seems to freeze. "Damn it," he growls. The air shifts and the planes of light and matter seem to distort, a blurring of magicka and nothing. Something hisses, and the elegant room with its fine white marble begins to shake, a great quaking of dust and destruction. Its edges begin to blacken and crumble, bursting into light and tearing away the scene like a painting riddled by moths. Flames singe the very air and the room begins to melt like oil on a painter's canvas. The domed roof caves and turns to choking dust midair; an angry paintbrush seems to slash the sky with red. Where Martin and I lay, the bed disappears, torn asunder by a gaping rift that shifts and morphs, taking the form of craggy land and brimstone. The cloying heat of soot-coated armour appears on my body, slick and weighty against my skin, ill-fitted and pressing against my ribs. Martin stands a distance ahead, slightly out of reach, balancing precariously on a crumbling bridge of stone. Soot smudges his cheeks, and he is freshly clad in golden armour, a great sword clasped in his grasp. A blast of mortar and flame crashes nearby, sending him staggering, and a growing lake of flame pools around the edges of his perch.

"Martin!" I scream. His eyes flash, and I leap to my feet, pressing my calves against the rough earth. Drums sound far off, and I can hear the distant shriek of daedric beasts on the hunt beneath the bloodied sky. However, the more I run, the more stagnant I stay. Martin seems to drift, further and further, and I grow no closer.

Around us, Oblivion rages, a tattered ruin of smoke and fire. The air chokes, and I gag at the fumes that spoil each breath. My legs strain, sinews and muscle aching against bone, each step more laboured than the last. I stumble on tufts of bloodgrass and twining harrada root, desperate. Martin races along the edge of the bridge.

"Kayta!" He bellows. His voice is hoarse and rough, growing all the more faint. "Kayta, stop! Behind you! Run! Wake up, my love! Run!"

Another blast of flame shakes the spit of stone under his feet, and the bridge crumbles beneath him. I watch, mouth agape, as Martin is plunged into in pool of fiery lava. The scream is awful. It hisses and smokes where he stood.

"No!"

My eyes snap open, a scream clawing at my throat as I return to the darkness of _The Feed Bag_ , returning to the coarse linen of the narrow bed, to the lumpy down of old goose feathers lined with hay, to the solidity of my body. My robe is slick with sweat, tangled in the folds of the worn coverlet, and my heart hammers, a clamouring of shock and adrenaline that tears at my ribcage, that streams tears at my eyes, that draws ragged breath from my lungs with the talons of a harpy. I shudder, tremors rattling my bones. Gods. _Gods that was horrible_. My eyes close, returning to darkness, willing away the images of Martin and Oblivion. I take a harried breath. _It was just a dream_ , I think. _I_ … _I think._ I exhale slowly, coughing on the scent of ash, so vivid, so real.

But the smoke does not leave my lungs. I can still taste it, smell it on the air, and I can hear the crackle of flames. I can hear a scream, and… and a thud. A groan and the softest hint of leather boots creeping along floorboards. There is the click of a lock, and the slightest squeak of hinges.

My eyes snap open, searching the darkness.

Blinded by shadow.

And then there is a flash: the curve of a wicked blade arcs towards my chest. Swift and soundless.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And so the fun begins anew. Happy Boxing Day! Plans never go as planned (unless they're detailed plotting notes stashed on my phone... which I have and are making me so excited for where this is going). Thank you as always for reading, for following and for favouriting. It means a lot, and I hope you're enjoying the build up. The next instalment will be rife with action and dash of intrigue (so I for one will be having a lot of fun finishing it up).

Thank you again, and please leave a comment, a question, a concern or a good ol' fashioned crit down below. Happy reading!

Cheers,

-Mintermist


End file.
